A Broken Hallelujah
by The Profane Angel
Summary: AU Story. Claire's alive, but did escape her life in NY. She returns to the city out of necessity and makes contact with Jack, and thus a story of redemption and reconciliation unfolds. Will be a multi-chapter fic.
1. Part One

A/N - an AU story, where Claire does not die, but she does escape her life in NY. She returns to the city out of necessity and makes contact with Jack, and thus a story of redemption and reconciliation unfolds. I always swore I'd never write such a story, but here you go….with many thanks to Elisabeth Carmichael.

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part One_

---

Jack McCoy's day was done. He locked his files away, then opened his favorite drawer, which hid a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and a framed photograph. The picture was at the bottom, under the bottle. He couldn't avoid seeing it when he wanted a drink, and that became bothersome. He'd turned it face down a couple of years ago rather than be reminded on a daily basis, in this place, of what he'd lost. His sleeve caught on the back of the frame as his fingers closed around the bottle, and he irritably shook it free. Then he stopped. He looked at the bottle, then the cardboard backing on the picture, then at a glass. Sighing, he grabbed a glass, poured, and reached for the picture.

Five years, he thought, looking at the face of Claire Kincaid. She was seated on the circular staircase on the exterior of a lighthouse. Her hair was windblown, eyes lit with laughter, one hand gripping the wrought-iron stair rail, the other buried in her jacket's pocket. His finger traced her red and black parka, then moved to her face. Claire. He couldn't hear her name, think it, without pain. Claire's been gone for five years, five long, terrible years, he thought. And in that time, he'd yet to learn how to fill the emptiness, block the loneliness, deal with his guilt.

He heard laughter and he looked up. He recognized the voice behind the laughter, and he tossed the picture in the drawer, closing it with his foot. As expected, Abbie walked in, pausing just inside the doorway, leaning back against the frame. She smiled. "We're going for a drink, Jack, want to come?"

There was a time when he would have jumped on the invitation with both feet, when he desperately wanted to bury the loneliness and guilt, but not now. He'd found the easiest way to cope with life was to avoid it as much as possible. "I don't think so, Abbie." He smiled, without warmth or humor. "But thanks."

She pushed off the doorframe and approached. She wasn't smiling now. She leaned on his desk, both hands on the calendar blotter, and looked down at him. "Jack," she said, "I think you should." Her right hand moved, her index finger on a calendar square. Her nail made an irritating noise tapping the date. "I know what today is."

"It's Thursday," he said, not wanting to go there. He never wanted to go there, but sometimes he was dragged anyway. He would see the overly bright hospital corridor, see Lennie Briscoe sitting by himself, staring into his personal abyss, see Mr. and Mrs. Gellar clinging to each other in the corner. No, he did not want to go there. He met Abbie's patient gaze with one of his own and sighed. "All right," he said, surrendering to the sheer force of her personality. "One drink."

"One drink," she agreed. He got up and changed into his jeans, while Abbie turned to stare out the door, her arms crossed and her foot tapping.

He buckled his belt, then draped his tie over the hanger with his suit coat, and sat to put his shoes on. He glanced at Abbie's narrow back, her dark suit and long black hair, and remembered. Claire turned away the first time, as he changed from his suit into jeans and a sweater in front of her, a door providing partial cover. Claire rolled her eyes, he remembered, as if his wardrobe change was a test of her patience and tolerance. Claire was tall and slender, like Abbie, but any resemblance ended there. Refined, delicate, vulnerable Claire was miles ahead of coarse, direct, tough Abbie Carmichael. Jack stood, ready to go.

He walked beside Abbie to the elevator, at odds with himself, nothing new. He hadn't been comfortable in his skin for a long time, not since he bailed out on Claire, and she died. Not immediately, he remembered, it had taken her weeks to slip away, weeks in a center for the brain-damaged in upstate New York. No hope, they'd been told, and Mrs. Gellar refused to believe that, refused to take her daughter off life support. He realized Abbie was frowning at him, and he jerked to the present. "What."

"The elevator, Jack?" She gestured to the open door and waiting car. He shrugged and stepped in ahead of her, as she wanted.

The bar was loud, smoky, crowded. Abbie grinned and waved, but he made no effort to identify the person she saw. He allowed her to drag him with her, through the crowd, to a large table in the back. A half dozen of their colleagues sat around, drinks in hand or on the table, and Jack smiled mechanically at each of them. When Abbie pulled a chair away and pressed on his shoulder he sat.

He ordered a double scotch. His eyes found the Knicks' game, and he followed the action while his comrades talked around him. Constant motion, he thought, is the key, move fast enough and you'll outrun the pain. He looked at Abbie when she elbowed his ribs. "What."

"You're talkative tonight," she chided. "We asked your opinion on Barnett."

He frowned as he raised the glass to his lips. "I have no opinion," he said, "outside of the office. Never mix work and drinking, Abbie, it's bad form." He carefully set the glass on the table, nudging it with his finger to align with a wet napkin. This was a bad idea, he thought, I know better than to be around well-meaning people on this day. I don't need a babysitter.

Abbie frowned, her head cocked, and she opened her mouth. Before she spoke, he pushed away from the table. She immediately stood, too. "We just got here, Jack."

"And you can stay," he said. "I'm not feeling well, I have a headache. I'll see you in the morning."

As he wove through the crowd he saw a young woman at the front of the bar, pushing her way past people, making for the door. His heart stopped. She looked just like Claire. Without thinking, he accelerated his forward progress, realizing, when he got to the front door, that every young woman with black hair was going to look like Claire on this night. He sighed as he stepped out into fresh air, looking from side to side. Whoever she was, she was gone.

He walked to the corner and hailed a cab. Settling into the backseat, he gave the driver his address, then stared sightlessly out the side window. She did look like Claire, he thought, he wasn't imagining it. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, hard. Claire was gone. There were probably a hundred women in the city who could pass for her at first glance, but Claire, his Claire, was gone.

They'd been arguing for weeks prior to that terrible day, the day Mickey Scott was executed, but Jack never thought an argument would lead to the end of all he loved. Their last conversation, over the phone, was brief but held the promise of reconciliation - she would meet him at the bar, take him home, put him to bed. And he, drunk, grew tired of waiting, so he told Lennie Briscoe "the hell with her." He walked out. He caught a cab, went home, passed out, only to have a ringing phone bring him back to consciousness a few hours later.

The cab stopped in front of his building, and Jack paid the driver, then got out. He stood on the sidewalk for a minute, pressing his lower back, acknowledging his doorman with a curt nod. When the muscles loosened under the practiced pressure of his fingers, he walked to his door. "Hello, Tom," he said to the doorman.

"Mr. McCoy," Tom said, with a gentle nod. "How are you tonight?"

He hesitated. Was Tom just being courteous, or did he remember the significance of the date? Tom's face was the usual bland mask all doormen wore, and Jack shrugged a shoulder. "Fine, thank you," he said. He walked into the small lobby, pausing by the mailboxes.

In his apartment, he undressed, content to sit in his shorts and drink himself into oblivion. He poured scotch into a tumbler and took it to the couch. He turned off the lamp, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, watching shadows created by the streetlights. Claire. He drank, wanting to drown that melancholy voice, which wouldn't hesitate to remind him of what he'd lost, of his guilt. He knew how it worked, he had years of experience with that taunting voice that brought her fully into focus. He knew he'd have a vicious hangover come morning.

--II--

The anticipated hangover was present and accounted for when the alarm cut into his sleep. It was nasty, all right, his head felt like someone buried a cleaver in it, his mouth as if his tissues were made of cotton. His stomach promised to return anything he sent its way. Jack rolled on his stomach and pushed up on his elbows, looking at the clock. Five-thirty. He dropped to the pillow and mattress, closing his eyes, negotiating with the man in charge of God's past due accounts, lapsed Catholic division. The headache grew worse, and Jack groaned. He smelled coffee, as the timer switched the power on, and he thought even that was too much for his stomach. He could not go to work, not feeling like this. He couldn't recall a worse hangover. And then he did.

The morning after he got the call telling him Claire died at Fairhaven, that morning had truly been the hangover from hell. This ran a close second. He pulled the other pillow over his head, trying to shut out the street noises, faint as they were. If he could just go back to sleep…

Fifteen minutes later, he gave up. He sat up, slowly, holding the mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed for another five minutes, then he lunged to his feet, staggering, as he walked into the bathroom. He leaned over the sink, hands gripping its sides, fighting the urge to vomit. When that passed, he brushed his teeth. The toothbrush triggered his gag reflex, and that was it. Dry heaves wracked his body as his stomach punished him with the cruelty of a Jesuit priest for the night's excesses. When the heaves stopped, he dropped on his bottom, leaning against the wall, his bare feet flanking the toilet. He covered his face with his hands. This shit has got to stop, Jack, he thought.

He dragged himself back to bed and burrowed under the covers. He drifted for a little while, lost in memories, and then it was time to call Adam. He supposed Adam was used to it. This anniversary, if one could call it that, was the one day of the year when Jack McCoy would call in sick. Adam never hinted at the word hangover, and Jack certainly didn't say it, but it stood between them, an issue that would divide them if it surfaced. When Jack told Adam he had the flu, the old man said, "Take care of yourself, I'll see you on Monday," and hung up. Jack fumbled with the receiver, finally got it in its cradle, and rolled over on his other side. He wondered if sleep would ever come.

--III--

By nightfall, Jack felt better. He wanted a hot meal, so he dressed in jeans and a sweater and went out. He walked toward a small restaurant and bar a few blocks away. Mealtimes were when the loneliness really hit. People were not meant to eat alone, he thought, but he could not find it in himself to invite someone to dinner. He'd eat quickly, he thought, and go back home.

He saw the man walk out of the alley. In the seconds that Jack had him in focus, he thought the man was familiar. Average height, sandy hair, a hooked nose. And then Jack's eyes were on the pistol the man raised, on the enormous barrel. Claire, he thought, please be waiting for me.

The first impact, in his shoulder, staggered him. The next one, less than a second later, hit him in the upper chest and everything went black. The sound of a scream echoing over the lingering noise of a gunshot and the smell of cordite drew people out of the bar and from around the corner. The man stood over Jack McCoy for a second, prepared to fire a third time, then, satisfied Jack was dead, he looked at the witnesses. He swung his pistol in a quick outward arc, then he turned and ran up the alley. No one bothered peeking in the alley. As the sound of a siren grew closer, they scattered. Jack McCoy bled on the sidewalk.

--xx--

He woke at some point, aware of agonizing pain and dim light. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes wouldn't work properly. He saw a woman in blue scrubs walk by and he tried to call her. His voice didn't seem to function, either. He remained still, letting his eyes slowly adjust. Details emerged. Hospital, he thought, and then the intensity of his pain overrode any further thought. He jerked his head from side to side, tried to raise his arms, formed words that emerged as whispers. Something near his head beeped furiously.

The nurse he'd seen a few minutes earlier came to his bedside, the stethoscope around her neck falling away from her chest as she leaned over him. "Mr. McCoy?" She stopped in the insistent beeping. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," he whispered, "yes."

She reached up and behind his head to adjust something, then put a button control in his hand.

"Morphine pump," she said. "Press the red button on top and it will give you another dose." She smiled. "Glad you're back with us."

The medicine helped almost immediately, and he relaxed. "How long?"

"Three days," she said.

Three days, he thought, as the drugs pulled him back into the blackness. He slept.

The young woman was getting coffee from the vending machine in the family room when Maggie Smith, RN, walked in. Maggie tugged on the ends of her stethoscope, took a deep breath, and approached the younger woman. Her tennis shoes squeaked on the linoleum and the woman looked up. She held the coffee cup and waited, her shoulders squaring, as Maggie stopped in front of her. Early thirties, Maggie thought again, she'd assessed this slender young woman, with her delicate beauty, as being too vulnerable for a place like this. Too easily wounded by the suffering of others. Appearances, Maggie Smith thought, really are deceiving.

"Mr. McCoy was awake, briefly," she said. "He was in a lot of pain, the morphine put him back under, but he should be able to hear you, if you want to talk to him."

The younger woman sipped coffee and made a face, then cleared her throat. "I haven't talked to him in a long time," she said. Then she drew a deep breath and nodded, as if agreeing with some internal decision. "I do want to see him," she said.

"Follow me," Maggie said, unnecessarily. Young Ms. Kincaid knew the layout of the intensive care ward by now. She'd arrived yesterday morning, escorted by a much older man. Maggie nailed him as a cop, her wounded patient's protector. The man stood with Ms. Kincaid at Mr. McCoy's bedside for a few minutes, then patted her shoulder and left without a word. From that moment, Ms. Kincaid stayed in the hospital, at Mr. McCoy's bedside for every allotted minute, leaving without argument when Maggie gently reminded her that the visiting window for this half hour was over. She'd once found two men, the familiar cop and another, disparate in age and dress, flanking her in the family waiting room, but they did not accompany her to the patient's side. Maggie wondered who Ms. Kincaid was, she didn't think she was the patient's daughter, not with the way she'd touch Mr. McCoy as he lingered under consciousness. She's struggling with some inner conflict, Maggie thought, accustomed to reading in the faces of her patients' loved ones all their varying emotions. She's not his daughter, not his wife. Girlfriend? Maggie discounted that label, too, she'd taken too long to arrive at the hospital for that status.

Ms. Kincaid peeled away from Maggie at Mr. McCoy's cubicle; Maggie continued on to the nursing station. She glanced up once as she opened a chart, seeing Ms. Kincaid stroke Mr. McCoy's face, observing her bowed shoulders, the movement of her pants' legs. Chair, she thought, the woman is shaking. Quickly arriving in the small space dedicated to keeping the man alive, Maggie scooted a hard, straight chair behind Ms. Kincaid's long legs and pushed her shoulder. Ms. Kincaid obediently sat, but her hand snaked through the bedrails for Jack's hand. Lover, Maggie thought, as she returned to the big desk and her observation post, she's his lover but they broke up a long time ago, and she isn't over him yet. Triumphantly smiling, Maggie busied herself with charts. She loved solving these little mysteries of the human heart.

--xx--

Lennie Briscoe sat in the family room, one of three on the intensive care floor. It was deserted, as usual. He got coffee, then settled himself again on an uncomfortable plastic chair and waited. She was in with Jack, she'd be back when the nurse ran her off. Lennie could wait, he'd waited years to see her again, what was another few minutes? In all this time, he thought, I'm the only one, other than her parents, who knew. I played my shameful part in this cloak and dagger scenario. Claire saw her way out and she took it, he reflected, she was broken in body and heart and all she thought about was escaping. He'd tried to tell her about the broken lives left in her absence, but she didn't want to hear it. And that, he thought, was the last time I saw her, when I left her, in tears, in the living room of her small apartment in Vermont.

"Lennie."

He looked up. She stood, leaning against the doorframe, hands jammed in her jeans' pockets. Her hair was long now, curly, but her face was the same. She didn't look any more like a motel manager than he did, he thought, but it was a great choice for anonymous occupations. "Claire," he answered, rising, spilling coffee on his hand. He wiped it on his pants.

Claire walked in and sat next to him. She put her hand on his knee. Licking her lips, she cleared her throat, then said, "You were right. I acted like a selfish, self-absorbed, drama queen high school student." Her left hand came up and rubbed the scar on her forehead. "I was.." her lips moved, but words didn't come. She appealed to Lennie with her eyes.

"Coward?" he suggested. "Afraid? I don't know where you're going with this, sorry."

She still struggled with the after-effects of the accident and coma, he knew that, she didn't feel self-conscious with him. "Afraid," she said. "And I was a coward, too." Her left leg jiggled, and her hand came down to clamp on her knee, hard. "And now I'm facing all the people I hurt." She twisted, reaching for her purse. She took a pill bottle out of it, uncapped it, and tipped two pills into her palm. Dry-swallowing them, she put the bottle back and dropped her purse to the floor by her feet. "They don't seem to hate me."

"No, they don't hate you, Claire. They don't understand, but they don't hate you." He finished his bitter coffee and leaned over to toss the cup in the trash.

"Hate me he'll." She stopped, biting her lower lip. She took a deep breath, then tried again. "He'll hate me." She looked at the vending machine and reached down for her purse.

Lennie stopped her hand. "Got it," he said, and he stood. He got a fresh cup of coffee for Claire, then sat down and took her right hand in his. He studied her palm for a few seconds, then met her intense gaze. "Jack isn't going to hate you, Claire. He's going to be hurt and bewildered, like everyone else, but I don't think he could ever hate you."

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she said, easing her hand from Lennie's. "I don't belong here. No more." She scratched her head with her freed hand, then looked at it, as if expecting to see blood on her nails. "I left him. I.." She sighed. "It gets worse under stress," she said. "The word disconnects. My leg." She met his kind gaze.

"Take your time, Claire." Lennie smiled.

"My mother would choke if she knew I was here. But I couldn't stay away. Couldn't let him die without knowing…" Irony cut her short this time, and tears filled her soft brown eyes. "Karma, huh, Lennie?"

"Karma," he agreed. He looked at his watch. "Van Buren said she was coming by this evening, when she got out of the office."

"Warning?" she asked, a flash of humor lighting her eyes. "Should I run? Now?" She bit her lip again, then sighed. "Or face what's rightfully coming?"

"She loved you, Claire. Like a mother, almost." He turned to put his hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing it. "Like everybody else, she's in a state of shock, and she's angry, too, no doubt, but she wants to see you."

Claire nodded. "I want to see her." She drank her rapidly cooling coffee. "I have to face everyone eventually. Can't explain, I know, it was wrong." She gave up on the coffee and gave the cup to Lennie. He got up and put it in the trash, watching the liquid spill and spread, like the word about Claire did around the precinct and Hogan Place. Lennie eased back into his seat, his knees cracking.

They leaned against each other, silently. Lennie was replaying fresh memories, dreading the arrival of his lieutenant. Telling her Claire Kincaid was still alive was second only to telling Adam Schiff in difficulty, he reflected, it was harder than telling parents their teenage kid was dead. He'd gone to Adam's office, the morning after Jack was shot, making an appointment. That surprised the DA, Lennie Briscoe making an appointment to see him. Mr. Schiff paled, his knuckles white on the armrests of his desk chair, his eyes boring holes in Lennie.

"You knew?" he asked. "You knew all along?"

Lennie squirmed, but he did not try to evade the questions. "Yes. She was like my own kid, Mr. Schiff, she trusted me with that kind of faith. She felt trapped, depressed, lost. I told her, her parents told her, that her solution was not a solution, it was cruel and unnecessary, but she insisted. Her doctors said there was brain damage, not to aggravate her condition, to go along with her. So Mrs. Gellar had her moved to a nursing home for the brain damaged, in Vermont, and told everyone she died. Had a memorial service."

"Yes, I know, I was there!" Adam loosened his grip on the armrests. "She wanted to get away from Jack, from the prosecutor's office, that badly? That she'd do something so terrible?"

Lennie nodded. "She and Jack were constantly arguing. She felt like her life was slipping away from her control. And that was before her brain was scrambled by a drunk driver."

"And she's recovered?"

"She has trouble with words sometimes, with putting a sentence together. And her left knee and hip had to be reconstructed, it gives her constant pain. She lives on Percocet, sometimes walks with a cane. She has coordination problems occasionally. Scars on her forehead." He gestured with his hands, a 'you know' movement. "But she's essentially Claire. She'll arrive tomorrow morning. She's going straight to the hospital."

Claire's bump against his shoulder brought Lennie back to the present. He glanced at her. She'd slumped in the chair, her legs out straight and apart, staring at the far wall. He looked at the clock on the wall over a row of identical hard chairs. It was almost six. Another visiting window would open, and he hoped Van Buren arrived after Claire left for her few minutes with Jack. If she was going to rip Claire's head off, he wanted to know ahead of time.

"Claire Kincaid." The voice was pleasant enough, but Lennie's years of experience told him anger was dangerously close to the surface. Claire stood and faced Anita Van Buren for the first time in five years. She'd felt so close to Anita the last time she saw her, confiding her fears and doubts to the older woman. And now she felt the distance, the mistrust and anger she so rightfully deserved.

"Anita." Claire waited.

Anita walked up to her, her eyes bright. "You look good," she said, her gaze running up and down Claire's tall, slender frame. "For a corpse."

Claire shut her eyes momentarily, then focused on her shorter friend. "I'm sorry, Anita," she said. "I scared." Her fists clenched and she tried again. "I was scared. Confused. Made a terrible choice."

"Yes, you did." Anita took her arm and led her to the chairs. "I shed a lot of tears for you, and Jack was shattered." She looked up at Lennie. "I always wondered why you seemed so calm, so accepting." She looked at Claire again. "And now you're back. Why."

"Jack," she said. "I have to be here for Jack."

"Does he know you're here?"

She shrugged. "I've talked to him, but he hasn't regained consciousness. The nurse said he woke a little while ago, but he was out again when I went in. I'm not sure he'll want to see me. Terrible I did that thing." She bit her bottom lip and tears spilled from her eyes. "I did a terrible thing," she said, slowly, enunciating each word. She faced Anita. "Can you forgive me?"

Anita's face softened, and then she put her arms around the fragile younger woman. "I don't know," she whispered. "I loved you, and that hasn't changed. Maybe I can forgive the pain and grief, Claire, but I'm not sure Jack can." Claire trembled under Anita's arms, and Anita released her, stepped back, staring at her with a lingering disbelief. They'd all felt such shock and pain when she died, Anita thought, and it was all a lie. Still, looking at the now older, damaged woman she'd once thought of as a daughter, love is the one thing that doesn't die, I don't think I can hate her, can be unforgiving. Something drove Claire to make the decision to disappear, to die, and Anita wanted to believe it was her injured brain. She couldn't have pulled it off without help, without her parents, and Anita shifted gears, blaming them more than this fragile woman-child standing in front of her. They'd made it work, played the grieving parents, distancing themselves from anyone who'd known Claire, especially Jack. Claire's mother really disliked Jack, Anita remembered, perhaps she took some sadistic glee in watching him dissolve into a shell of the man he'd been before that night.

An ICU nurse stepped into the waiting room. "You may visit him, Ms. Kincaid," she said.

"I'm back in a few," Claire said, touching Anita's shoulder. Then she walked after the nurse and into the mysterious room barred to all but medical personnel and close loved ones.

Anita stared at Lennie as she sat next to him, crossing her legs. "You really need to talk to me, Lennie. We've reached the time and place," she added, alluding to his hasty 'not now, this is not the time or place' when he'd told her Claire lived.

He sighed. How many times had he repeated this story over the past couple of days? "She felt her life was disintegrating and she didn't know how to save it. Then her brain was scrambled, and her thought processes were anything but the cool, logical Claire we all knew. She wanted that Claire to die, and the doctors kept telling her parents that the extent of her brain damage was unknown, not to upset her, to go along with whatever future she tried to plan. They obviously didn't know she wanted people to think she'd died." He shrugged. "So she was moved upstate, very discreetly. As you recall, it was a memorial service, not a funeral. And while everyone here tried to adjust to life without Claire, she tried to adjust to life itself. To heal."

"You stayed in touch all these years?"

"Christmas cards, mostly. She knew I'd keep my mouth shut. Guilt." He met Anita's penetrating gaze. "If I hadn't fallen off the wagon, the accident wouldn't have happened. She relied on that guilt, and my affection, for complicity. Loo, you have to believe she wasn't thinking, she wasn't the same person who came by the bar for Jack and left with me. She was broken, frightened, and she wanted to start over. Where no one would pity her, treat her like a fragile doll, compare the old Claire with the new, inferior version."

"She didn't believe we'd make allowances for her injuries?"

"That's exactly what she believed, and she didn't want it. She knew Jack would stick to her like glue, smother her, and that Adam would treat her gingerly, assign her less important cases." He rubbed his jaw. "It made sense to her, Loo, and that's what we have to remember. Killing herself, in a way, made sense in that crossed wiring in her brain. Look at her, she still has trouble articulating thoughts, putting sentences together. Her career as a trial lawyer was over. And you can imagine how Jack would have been."

Anita nodded. "I can." She sighed, a terribly weary sound. "She was such a sweet girl."

"She still is, maybe even more so. It breaks my heart sometimes, watching her walk with a cane, listening to her try to talk about complex things. It took a lot of courage to come here, Loo. Please try to find a way to forgive her."

"It should be that easy?"

"Yes. The Claire we knew and loved did die that night. She was never going to be the same, and she knew it. And she wanted to forge a new life, on her terms, without pity and excuses."

Claire was back, leaning on the doorframe, watching them. A half-smile was on her face. "I don't expect forgiveness, Anita. I'd like it, yes, but I stopped believing in redemption and grace a long time ago." She pushed off the frame and walked up to them. "He's waking up, they're going to let me stay with him longer, what I wanted to tell you." She frowned, sighed, tried again. "That's what I wanted to tell you. I don't know what will happen." She looked at Lennie. "Will you wait for me?"

"Of course."

She looked at Anita. "I know I can never justify it, Anita. It was what I thought I had to do."

---


	2. Part Two

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Two_

---

Anita patted her shoulder. "We'll talk later, Claire. Go to Jack." As Claire retreated, back into ICU, she said to Lennie, "Lord, would I love to be a fly on that wall."

--xx--

Jack's eyes were half open when Claire returned to his bedside. He squinted, staring at her, his mouth opening.

"Jack," she whispered, "don't try to talk." She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Am I dead?" he said, his tone like an old man's.

"No."

"But you are."

She tried to smile. "No, I'm not. Not really. The Claire you knew and loved is gone, I'm what's left." She spoke slowly, forcing proper construction of her sentences.

"Claire." His hand moved and she took it. "I don't understand."

She drew a deep breath, then held his hand, which lay lifeless in hers. "I ran, Jack. I couldn't take it anymore. The fighting over things like capital punishment, over who was right and wrong, my mother, all of it. I'd lost myself. And then, when I heard doctors telling Mother I might never recover, I would, I knew, and I would go away. Easiest way was to die to the world. I convinced my parents, the doctors told them not to fight me, I was too fragile. And so I was moved away, upstate, until I recovered enough to live on my own. I know it hurt you. That bothered me, but I was afraid you wouldn't let me go, and I needed to be gone. To relearn myself." She struggled with words, closing her eyes and biting her tongue. "To find me again. Claire Kincaid, ADA, was gone, and I didn't know who was left."

"But you're back."

She stroked his bearded cheek. "You are very ill. I was afraid you would die, believing I was gone. Lennie told me how badly hurt you were, how my loss affected you. I had to see you, tell you that I still love you. Maybe not like I did, but love you, yes."

His hand moved in hers, pulled away. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have let me believe you died, that you died because of me." He frowned. "Lennie knew?" When she nodded, he said "Who else?"

"Just my parents. My doctors. Lennie tried to convince me not to do it. I'm sorry, Jack, I am so sorry I hurt you so much."

Tears filled his eyes. "Hurt doesn't begin to cover it. I was destroyed. Adam was crushed. Van Buren felt like she'd lost a daughter. A lot of people loved you."

"I know. I don't expect forgiveness."

"My God." He closed his eyes. "I don't know what to say."

"Do you want me to go away?"

His eyes opened, and she saw raw pain. "No. Not now. There's too much to say, and I'm in no condition to say it. Where are you staying?"

"With Lennie."

Jack sighed. "That figures." His hand reached for a button and he pressed it. Claire saw a bubble in his IV line. "Morphine," he whispered. "Why don't you go to my place? I never changed it, I couldn't."

Her heart felt like it was breaking as the depths of his pain over her loss became clearer. She felt as if saying no would wound him beyond anything else, so she squeezed his hand and nodded. "I don't have the key," she said.

"They should be in my stuff at the nurses station." He found another button and pressed it, and a large, bony nurse came over. "My keys," he said, "please give them to Claire." She nodded. "We have so much to say."

Claire looked away for a second. "Too much, maybe. I don't know how you can forgive me for what I've done."

"We'll figure all that out. I need to rest. Get Lennie to take you over there." The nurse returned and put a key ring in Claire's hand. "I need to rest, to think. You do, too. Come back in the morning?"

"Yes," she said, and straightened up. "Please believe that part of me still loves you."

She saw acknowledgement in his wounded eyes. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

He looked at her and she bent to kiss his forehead, to brush his graying hair away from his forehead. Then she walked out of ICU, and John James McCoy cried.

XXX

Anita was still with Lennie when she returned to the waiting room, the keys to Jack's apartment clutched in her fist. "He wants me to stay at his place," she said. "I couldn't say no."

"He's willing to overlook this?" Anita sounded incredulous.

"No, he didn't say that. Just that talking we must do." That look of anger and frustration crossed her face again. "I know I did a terrible thing, Anita. I broke, or thought I did, a bond between he and I as cleanly as possible."

"And that bond didn't break at all?" Anita's expression was shrewd. "He loved you, Claire Kincaid. He was a broken man. I'm sure Lennie told you that."

"Actually," Lennie said, "I didn't dwell on that too much. There was too much else going on."

"Broken and lost," Anita continued. "He almost had a man sentenced to death for drunk driving - how did Ross put it, 'this one's for Claire Kincaid'? He drank like a fish. He locked himself away, grieved terribly for you, wouldn't let those of us who cared for him help. And now you're back, and I can't imagine what that's doing to him." She looked at Lennie. "You take her where she needs to go. I don't have anything else to say right now, except tread lightly, woman. I'd hate to see that man go down the toilet again. And you." She trained hard eyes on Lennie. "I hold you accountable for a lot of this. I'll see you in the morning, my office, eight-thirty." She gathered her things. "Claire." She turned and walked away, her posture erect and her aura radiating anger.

Claire leaned against Lennie. "I think you better get me out of here, before I see more people who have every reason to hate my ass. Do you remember where Jack lives?"

"I do." He helped her into her coat, waited while she got her purse and mentally set herself for the trek to Jack McCoy's apartment.

Once in Lennie's car and working their way through traffic, she looked at the man who was a father to her in many ways. "You told me Jack was broken up over my death, what really happened?"

Lennie sighed, God he wanted a drink. "He was totally shattered, Claire. He didn't show up for work for days, and when he did, he smelled like a distillery, his clothes were wrinkled, his shaving hit or miss. Adam cut him a lot of slack, grieving as he was, too. And then Adam assigned Jamie Ross as his assistant, hoping she would help pull him out, refocus his energies on his work. While she did to some extent, he still drank way too much, and there was an anger in him that was scary. He went on a crusade against drunk drivers, he pushed the envelope legally in many cases. Adam had to rein him in more than once. He pushed everyone away." He stopped at a light, three blocks from Jack's building. "He didn't date for a couple of years, and then it was never anything serious. And he was very, very angry with me. He blamed me, though he never said so explicitly."

"And Adam?"

Lennie shrugged. "Like a lot of us older guys, he looked on you as a daughter in many ways. He was very worried about Jack. It brought his own mortality home." He looked at her, judging her emotional state. He wasn't surprised to see tears running down her cheeks. "Rey didn't know you well enough to feel more than sorrow for a few weeks. Anita struggled deeply with it, with her pain and sense of loss, she became close to McCoy, sometimes she was the only one he'd let in. They all felt they'd lost something precious. Which they did. And I felt like a dog, knowing the truth." He made a right turn. "My sorrow was real enough. I was responsible for the accident in many ways, and I knew we had lost you, just not the way they did." He parallel parked close to the building she once knew so well. "Time moved on, everyone moved on, you became a distant, sometimes painful memory for everyone but McCoy. He couldn't seem to get past losing you, move forward with life, except for work. He has a new assistant now, Abbie Carmichael. I can imagine she'll want to rip you a new one if she gets her hands on you." He got out of the car and came around to open her door.

"Which deserves me." She groaned. "Shit, this will never stop."

"Time, Claire, it takes a lot of time. You've made remarkable progress." They stopped for the doorman, who was familiar to Claire. "We're going up to Mr. McCoy's," Lennie said.

The doorman frowned, focused on Claire. Then she held his keys out, and he looked from them to her. "You're -" he stopped, his hand outstretched toward the door. "Are you?"

She nodded. Stunned, he opened the door. He knew Lennie was a cop and that they wouldn't be here without Jack McCoy's consent. Claire and Lennie stepped past him into the lobby, and she paused, looking around. Then, shaking off memories, she led the way to the elevators. Silence was the rule until they were inside Jack's apartment. It hadn't changed. It was considerably messier, and she saw a framed picture of herself on the wall near Jack's desk. The grandfather clock chimed the half hour.

"God," she whispered. "Do you think he'll forgive me?"

"I really don't know," Lennie said, gently, taking her elbow and guiding her to the couch. She shied away, memories of making love on that couch filling her mind. Then, under the slight pressure of his hand, she sat and looked around. "He wants you here, that means something, right?"

Her helpless gaze focused on him. "Don't know. He's shocked, hurt, and he's severely wounded. Maybe he just wants me here to know where I am or something."

"Maybe. What do you want, Claire? Why did you come back?"

"You told me he would probably die of his wounds," she said, and then she got up, shedding her coat and then her shoes. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A couple of cans of Diet Coke were on a shelf, and she asked Lennie if he wanted one. When he said no, she opened one and returned to the couch, refusing to look into the open bedroom doorway. "When you told me that, I knew I had to come back. He couldn't die without knowing I still love him, if that makes sense."

"It makes as much sense as anything." He jiggled his car keys. "Want me to go get your stuff? I can bring back some dinner and some sodas."

She nodded. "Thanks, that would be good." She sipped her drink. "This new woman, Carmichael?" Lennie nodded. "Is she involved with Jack?"

"Not the way she wants to be. He hasn't had a serious relationship since you. She's not going to be happy for a lot of reasons."

Claire thought. This other woman was meaningless to her, all that mattered was Jack and his recovery, and whatever came from that. She hoped Anita and Adam would find a way to accept her, even if they didn't forgive her, if she chose to try again with Jack. She didn't know if she wanted to try that. All she knew was she must make Jack understand why she did it and that she still cared for him.

Lennie stood. "I'll be back in an hour or so. Will you be all right, here, alone with your memories?"

"I have to be." She looked up at him. "Thank you."

He nodded and left her. She sat for a few minutes, amazed at the feelings that came back, it was as if she'd never left, or perhaps been gone for a few minutes. She got up and walked into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, clothes strewn on the floor, the chair, dresser. It smelt of Jack, of his special male essence, and brought tears to her eyes. She walked to the dresser, to the drawer that had been hers all those years ago. Opening it, expecting emptiness or Jack's clothing, she was surprised to find a pair of her sweatpants, jeans, a long-sleeved tee shirt, some socks and a couple of pairs of underwear. She picked up a red pair, holding them against her cheek. Jack bought them for her, the Christmas before the accident, he loved seeing her in red panties. Suddenly so tired she didn't know if she could stand, she pulled the sweatpants and a tee shirt out of the drawer, closed it with her knee, and changed into them, including the red panties.

She went back to the living room and began putting things away. It kept her busy until she heard Lennie's tapping on the door. Checking through the peephole, she stepped back and admitted him. He carried her suitcase, had changed out of his suit into slacks and a sweater. He put the suitcase down beside the door.

"It's begun," he said. "Carmichael's heard, and she's hunting you. Adam wants to see you."

"Did you tell them where I am?"

"I told Adam. He said he'd be by tomorrow, when he was more in control of his feelings. I'm avoiding Carmichael."

Claire sensed he wanted to leave, that he carried a heavier burden than she'd thought. She put her hand on his shoulder. "I owe you so much."

"We can talk about the bill another time." His smile was weak. "You need to rest, Claire." He glanced around. "Order once more, that much hasn't changed." He still held the grocery bag and she took it. "Some microwave stuff, some Diet Coke." When she rubbed her head, he asked, "Another one?"

She nodded. "Familiar company. Thank you."

"I'll see you tomorrow. Shall I take you to the hospital?"

"I'll take a cab." She opened the door and watched him walk to the elevators, then closed and locked the door. She put the food away, stored the cold sodas in the refrigerator, then went to her purse for Percocet. And then she tried to relax.

IV

Abbie Carmichael pushed, as only Abbie could, and was admitted to Jack's cubicle in ICU. He was awake, staring at the ceiling, the machines around him beeping regularly. He looked much better, which surprised and frightened her. He looked at her when she stood by his bed.

"Abbie," he said, his voice still not back to normal.

"I hear you've had company. From beyond the grave." She put her purse and coat in the visitor's chair. "What the hell is going on, Jack?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "My Claire," he said, "my sweet Claire."

"You have to be kidding me. This woman lets you believe she's dead, and now suddenly she waltzes in, to rescue you from your deathbed, and it's all just fine with you?"

He frowned. "I don't know what it is. Not now. She's damaged, I can see that much. How much Claire remains is an open question, but I think a lot does." His frown melted away. "I'm shocked, but I'm glad. Try to understand that much. The woman I loved is not dead."

"No, she just made sure you thought she was and left you without a second thought, you and these others who knew her. That doesn't sound like a sweet person to me, Jack McCoy. It sounds like a deranged woman."

"Damaged. The wreck did a number on her brain."

"And you're just going to let her back into your life, like she's been in Italy all these years?"

One of his machines beeped faster. "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'm going to listen to her, talk to her." He looked at the nurse, then back at Abbie. "I have her somewhere safe right now, and we have time to talk."

---


	3. Part Three

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Three_

---

"Where is she, Jack?"

"My apartment." He tried to wave away the nurse, who fixed Abbie with a professional glare.

"You must leave, Miss," she said. "His heart rate and blood pressure are rising, he needs rest and quiet."

She grabbed her things and then said, "This is wrong, and I hope you'll see that when the shock wears off." She stalked out of ICU, hell-bent on confronting this legend she'd heard about. Once in her car, she picked up her cell phone and punched a number.

"Jamie Ross."

"Jamie, it's Abbie Carmichael. I need to talk to you."

There was a pause, then Jamie cleared her throat. "I know about Claire, Abbie. I'll talk with you, but this is something beyond your ken."

"May I come over?"

"Yes. Katie's with Neil for the night. Are you coming now?"

"If that's OK with you."

"See you soon, then."

Abbie closed the phone and started the car. It took her half an hour to reach Jamie's townhouse, and she had trouble finding a parking spot. Finally finding one a block away, she strode toward Jamie's house, her anger simmering on medium. Jamie answered almost as soon as she rang the bell.

Jamie Ross was still a striking woman, tall and slender, and above all, dignified. She admitted the younger woman, took her coat, and guided her into a tastefully decorated sitting room. Coffee waited. Jamie sat in a wingback chair while Abbie settled on the couch. After pouring, Jamie leaned back and studied Abbie.

"He was never going to be your lover," she began. "Not only because he never got over Claire, but because she taught him to never mess with an assistant again."

"I know that." Abbie struggled not to snap at Jamie. "I'm worried about what she'll do to his head. What can you tell me about her?"

Jamie sipped her coffee, weighing her words. "I didn't know her," she began. "Not personally. I'd seen her, in court, in the hallways with Jack, saw them at intimate dinners on occasion. She was truly beautiful, and he was crazy in love with her. He tried, in his Jack way, to dominate and mold her, and failed. When I came into the office, he resented me, he wanted nothing to do with me. He was not the man I'd heard about, respected, he was broken in spirit and heart. Adam warned me to be gentle with him, which wasn't easy at times. I set him up a couple of times with blind dates, and he'd talk about Claire to them." She shrugged. "He was drunk one night, and I got him home, and I remember he said 'if I could just have five minutes with her.' So I expect he's confused but happy at the same time. I think it's safe to say Jack McCoy would forgive Claire Kincaid anything."

"And what do you think about what she did?"

"I think it was a terrible thing. I don't have anything to say to her, but I don't think I'll have an opportunity, either. She crushed that man, and I resent the hell out of it."

"I'm going to see her. Jack told her to stay in his apartment."

"Do you think that's wise? You can't win, Abbie. Let them work through it, stay out of it. All you'll accomplish is to alienate Jack. There's a lot history between them, and you aren't part of it."

"I can't sit by and do nothing. Someone needs to tell that bitch what she did."

"I suspect she knows. And she's brain damaged to some extent, as I understand it, that's going to make Jack protective. I wouldn't do this, I really wouldn't."

Abbie put her coffee down. "I have to. If nothing else, I have to see this legend in Jack's mind for myself."

"She was, as I understand it, a sweet, vulnerable, and very smart young woman. I don't know what she is now, but she came out of hiding for Jack, and that requires some strength. I'd think long and hard before I did something that can't be taken back."

Abbie nodded. "I appreciate the advice."

"But you're not going to take it."

"Not a chance." She collected her things. "Thank you for the coffee and your time."

Jamie sighed. "I hope you don't regret it."

"I feel like I have to do it." She walked with Jamie to the front door. "I have to see this woman for myself."

"Good luck," Jamie called after her, then muttered, "you're going to need it."

V

Claire wasn't surprised when the pounding on the door started. She got off the couch and looked through the peephole. A tall brunette, fairly attractive, stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Claire opened the door. "Yes?"

Abbie pushed into the apartment, she'd been here before. "Claire Kincaid? Abbie Carmichael, Jack's assistant."

Claire closed the door. "How do you do?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" She stripped off her coat and slung it on the chair. "Who the hell are you, lady, and what the hell are you trying to do?"

"I hardly think that's any concern of yours." Claire walked back to the couch and sat, trying to defuse the situation by putting distance and a calm body language between them. Abbie looked around, surprised at the neatness and order Claire brought in such a short time. Then she sat at the other end of the couch.

"Do you think you can just come back, into his life, and then fuck with his head?"

"I don't know what I think," Claire said, sipping her drink, "other than I need to be with him right now. And I'd like to think, on some level, he still needs me."

"He doesn't need you, lady."

Claire's smile touched on taunting. "Why? Because he has you?"

Abbie flushed. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

The flush deepened, but Abbie held Claire's gaze. "That's none of your business."

"You aren't." Claire sipped again, eyeing her adversary. "You want to, but he won't go there, will he?"

"Because of you?" Abbie sneered. "Don't have such a high opinion of yourself. What do you think your return from the dead is going to do to him? He'd just started rebuilding his life a couple of years ago, and now you want to wreck that?"

"I want to be with the man I loved, who, I think, still needs me, as I need him. And that's as much as I'm prepared to say, to you at least."

"You haven't been welcomed with open arms, have you?"

Claire put the can aside, crossed her legs. "I wasn't expecting to be."

And then Abbie felt drained, defeated by Claire's quiet self-assurance. "Was Jack glad to see you? Or just in shock?"

"Both. I know, Ms. Carmichael, that what I did could be considered beyond the bounds of conscience and decency and all those adjectives. My reasons for doing it are between Jack and myself, perhaps a few others."

"Such as Mr. Schiff?"

Claire sighed. "I'll see Adam tomorrow. I can take whatever he needs to say." That calm acceptance - Abbie wondered if it had always been there or was it a by-product of a brain injury? "And I'm sure he needs to say a lot." She met Abbie's gaze, without a shred of defensiveness or self-pity. "Have you said all you need to say?" Her tone was resigned, it was not a challenge.

Abbie had been called brash, bitchy, ballsy, but she felt none of those things at this moment. She felt diminished by this ghost in Jack's head, now corporeal and present in Abbie's life. "Do you truly understand what your 'death' did to him? I mean, are you capable, can your brain process it, of understanding that?"

Claire drew a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds. Then she exhaled, sipped her drink, and said, softly, "Yes."

"Do you understand why I feel the way I do?" Her gaze turned critical as she inspected Claire's face, neck, shoulders, hands. "I love him, Ms. Kincaid," she said, a snarl underlining the polite 'Ms. Kincaid' and her dark eyes boring into Claire's. "I've watched him get stronger, better, every day. I heard all the stories before I joined his office. I was warned by Mr. Schiff, that he could be unpredictable and angry, told why, told never to mention you." A bitter laugh escaped. "That was impossible, you arose in his conversation every so often. When I made a mistake, he'd say 'Claire always did such and such.' Not Jamie did so and so, but Claire. But that happened less and less. He was mellower, I guess you could say, more understanding and less anxious to grind defendants into the dust. I see Jamie Ross from time to time, and she said it was his way of finally accepting your loss and moving on, that it didn't surprise her, it meant he finally understood that not every crime is a hanging offense. She said it meant the ghost in his head was fading away." She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "And here you are. Some bastard Jack sent to Attica shoots him down in the street like a dog, and who comes out of the mist to stand by his bedside? His fucking ghost. When I think about what that must be doing to his head, lady, I want to slap you naked and hide your clothes."

Claire's smile was dry. "So I should have stayed dead. Lennie told me Jack was dying, and I should have ignored that, ignored my heart, and stayed dead. Giving you the space to stand by his bed, be there for him. Right?"

"Right."

"It wasn't going to happen. You say I don't understand what I did to Jack, but I do, because I know what Lennie's call to me did. Pain I won't begin to describe, and fear. Unbridled fear, regret." Her expression betrayed her struggle with the words, and she massaged her knee, still looking at Abbie. "So I know, OK? You I owe nothing, but for others I am deeply sorry for the choice I made. And I do not expect forgiveness. Jack and I inflicted wounds on each other all the time, and always found our way back together. This is between he and I. It's absolutely none of your business."

"Jack is very much my business."

Claire shrugged. "In the office, sure, OK, fine. But here -" she waved her hand at the room, "here is a private matter." She was so tired, she wanted this woman to leave. She took another deep breath. "You stay out of it."

"And if I don't?"

Claire couldn't miss that challenging note if she was deaf. She straightened her shoulders. "If Jack is still Jack, he'll crush you like a bug if you butt into this very private matter."

Abbie sneered. "So, what, you're going to crawl into bed with him and make it all better? Erase the years of pain and mourning, erase the competition?"

Tired, Claire thought, you're tired, focus on making your thoughts clear and not what you feel. "I'm not competing with anyone. I'm here for Jack, that's all. All you need to know. Now. Please. I need to rest."

Abbie stood, gathered her coat and purse. Why did she feel so incompetent compared to this refurbished woman? Claire was still gorgeous, scars on her forehead aside, but Abbie sensed the lingering damage. She wasn't the woman Jack remembered, so why did she leave Abbie feeling like a gangly, awkward girl? "I care very much about him, Ms. Kincaid, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you from fucking up his head again." She levied a withering stare at her adversary. "You don't compare well with the legend, lady. Not well at all."

Claire let it slide. "No one holds up well against a legend, whatever you mean by legend." She limped to the door, holding it open for Abbie. "If you mean I'm not the person I was five years ago, you're right. Leave it at that, and good night."

Abbie couldn't think of a retort, so she simply walked out of Jack's apartment, reeling with confusion, fear, and even intimidation. This woman was going to do a number on Jack, and Abbie didn't know how to counter it, protect him. She pressed the elevator button. All I can do is try, she thought, be there for him, let him know I care. The elevator doors closed and she stared at the descending digital numbers, feeling the metaphor in her heart - she was descending into hell and there was no way to stop it.

---


	4. Part Four

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Four_

---

Claire had showered and dressed, and, hair still damp, was working on her first cup of coffee when she heard the rap at the door. It was 8:30. She pushed off the couch and limped to the door, checking the peephole. Her stomach dropped to her knees, but she opened the door and faced Adam Schiff.

"Adam," she whispered. "Come in."

He wore a gray suit under his London Fog overcoat, fedora in hand. He moved slowly, more slowly than Claire remembered. He slipped out of his overcoat and draped it over the nearest chair, tossing his hat on its seat. Then he looked at her, a bewildered expression in his old eyes.

"Would you like coffee?" She felt she should do something, but apprehension kept her rooted to her spot near the door. When he nodded, she walked into the kitchen, limping painfully. Once she'd given him the mug of decent coffee and had resumed her seat at the opposite end of the couch, she grabbed her purse from the floor and dug out her pill bottle. Chasing a couple of pills with coffee, she eased the purse to the floor and faced the man she'd once held in awe. "How are you?" she asked.

He snorted. "Just dandy," he said. "The resurrection has happened right in front of me." He warily sipped coffee, then put the mug aside on the end table. "Why, Claire?"

She sighed. "Big question. Why did I do it, or why did I come back?"

"Both."

She circled her index finger on her thigh, then looked up and held his penetrating gaze. "I was lost. Confused. Scared beyond words. I had no idea how long I'd be helpless and dependent and I knew I'd never be a lawyer again." She worked hard to make the words work, forced them into order and comprehension. "Chaos?" She smiled, a wistful, sad thing that slid beneath Adam's armor. "It was all chaos. Jack and I were at each other's throats over Mickey Scott, he was a symbol for all the things going wrong in our lives. I wanted out, of the law anyway, I was hurt and confused. Then I ran into Lennie, Jack walked out on me before I got there, and then someone ran into me." She absently touched her temple, brushed the scar just above it. "I was a mess, but I guess you know that. Sometimes I was aware of people, other times I seemed to be on another planet." She drank, giving herself a moment to find the words. "Claire Kincaid, ADA, Jack McCoy's lover, Selma's daughter, was gone, that much was clear. I felt the pity every time someone visited. Yeah, I was aware, even though I was in a coma. And I thought, just die, Claire, go away and become whoever you are now. Learn to live again on a smaller, simpler scale. Did you know I had to learn to walk again?"

"No. How could I?" He reached for his mug on the end table.

"Maybe Lennie told you. I came out of the coma at the facility for people like me. Scrambled brains and eggs central." Her smile was humorless. "In that netherworld between the wreck and full consciousness, I'd decided. I was already dead in every way that counted. So I just let go. It was better, everyone could get on with life, and Jack wouldn't cling to me out of guilt instead of love. I learned to walk and talk again, it was a proud day when I could feed myself." The bitterness spilled into her voice. "When I could function independently, I stayed in Vermont. Got a job managing a small hotel in a small town. No one had expectations of this Claire Kincaid, no one felt sorry for her, pitied her. Everyone healed and moved on."

He cleared his throat. "Jack didn't."

"So everyone seems hell-bent on telling me." She finished her coffee, struggled to her feet, and took the empty mug to the kitchen. She came back with a can of Diet Coke. "I thought he would." She looked at him. "I'm sorry for the pain I caused, Adam. I don't know what else to say."

He tugged on his ear. "Skoda says what you did isn't so unusual when there's been serious brain trauma." Seeing her confusion, he amplified. "Dr. Emil Skoda. Our shrink, been with us a couple of years. Olivet left after Jack took her out at the knees in court with a cheap shot. Anyway, he said people like you often want to be dead, the life they wake up to is too foreign, too painful, they can't cope. So they wish they'd died. He said a few act that wish out - they either commit suicide or simply let the world think they're dead and disappear." He wiggled, turning to truly face her. "Is your new life happy?"

She shrugged. "I've learned happiness is an elusive thing, fleeting, more of an illusion than a reality. My life is reasonably content."

"But you're back. In effect, you've killed yourself a second time."

She thought about that. "Skoda?" He nodded. "That's what he says?"

"Yes. By coming back, you've ended your anonymous, content new life."

"I couldn't let Jack die without knowing the truth. Lennie said it didn't look good, that he probably wouldn't survive his wounds." She pinched the fabric of her jeans at the knee. "When Lennie told me he would probably die, I came apart." Tears filled her eyes. "Which is what I mean when I say happiness is an elusive thing, an illusion. I thought I was happy enough, that I'd put all this behind me." She glanced around the apartment. "And all it took was a phone call to prove I hadn't."

Adam rubbed the back of his neck. "And Jack?"

"He's confused, I know what that's like. Heavily medicated."

"It was his idea to have you here?"

She nodded. "I couldn't say no." She sighed. "Ms. Carmichael came to see me, I get the feeling she'd like nothing more than to kick my ass. She has a thing for Jack."

Adam's smile was tired. "Yes, she does, but Jack doesn't return it. You were the vaccine when it came to Jack's assistantitis. He's not the man you slipped away from, and you're not the woman he loved and lost." His hands clapped down on his thighs. "Boy, this is going to be some show."

"I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can say."

"I know." He looked at his watch. "Would you like me to drop you at the hospital? I have to go to work. Face Ms. Carmichael's hormones." He snorted. "On steroids."

Claire got to her feet. "Yes, thank you. And I'm sure you can handle Ms. Carmichael."

"Oh sure, I had my rabies shot this year." He stood, walked to his coat and hat. When she'd put on shoes and her jacket, Adam suddenly hugged her, holding her head against his shoulder for a second. "I'm just glad you're here, Claire. I'm supposed to be angry and unbending, but all I feel is glad. You're alive, how could I be angry about that?"

She kissed his cheek. "Thank you." She found Jack's keys. "I hope Jack feels the same way."

He winked. "I sent Skoda over to the hospital. I think he worked on a mine clearing unit in a previous life." Responding to her confusion, he said "He's good at sensing buried emotions and defusing them. He's good with Jack in particular."

"Oh." She locked the door and they walked to the elevator. "I'll have to meet him."

--xx--

Claire announced herself to the intensive care unit, then walked to the waiting room for visiting minutes. She was surprised to see a man sprawled in one of the miserable excuses for a chair, his hands folded on his flat stomach and his eyes closed. She moved quietly, taking the chair nearest to the door, but his eyes opened and he straightened up.

"Claire Kincaid?" She nodded, apprehensive. "Emil Skoda." He got up and walked to her, offering his hand. "I just had a long conversation with Jack." He smiled and elaborated. "I am a physician, so I'm not bound by the visitor's rules. Officially, Jack is a patient, I'm sure you remember the rules about department shrinks."

"Yeah." She shook his hand. "How is he?"

"Do you mean is he angry with you?" Emil sat next to her. She nodded. "He's confused more than angry, to be expected, considering he's getting massive doses of morphine. Underneath the confusion are some conflicted feelings. I think he thinks he's supposed to be pissed, but he isn't." He cocked his head and smiled. "Are you some kind of witch?" There was warmth in his voice. "Because a lot of men would be supremely pissed in a situation like this, so I'm assuming you've cast some kind of spell on him."

"Yeah, she's slipped him some kind of love potion." The angry, sarcastic, deep female voice came from the door. Abbie Carmichael stepped into the room and stood before them. She put her hands on her hips. "Meet the witchy woman, Emil."

He stood and put a hand on Abbie's elbow. "Take a breath, Abbie. This isn't your concern, and I can assure you that's Jack's position, too. It's between them."

"So you're butting in just for shits and grins?"

"Adam asked me to check on Jack." Emil's tone was soothing, but his eyes flashed warning signals.

"Ms. Kincaid?" Maggie stuck her head in the doorway. "You may visit. Mr. McCoy is asking for you."

Claire got to her feet, automatically taking the hand Emil extended to assist her. Abbie didn't miss that gesture, but another warning glare from Emil silenced her for the moment. Claire walked out with Maggie, limping, one hand on the small of her back.

Emil Skoda focused on Abbie Carmichael. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to visit my friend, my boss. And what's with you, Emil? Helping her up?" Abbie snorted. "Has she cast a spell on you, too? What is it with that woman, you guys are falling all over yourselves for her. You should see Lennie Briscoe, you'd think she was the second coming of the Magdalene." She snorted again, as if the whole thing was funny. "Maybe that's not too far off when it comes to comparisons."

"If you're inferring she's a whore, you would be well advised to keep that opinion to yourself. You're not funny. You don't know jackshit about brain damage, I do, and that's one damaged woman who's clearly worked hard to overcome her obstacles. This is truly between them. You do not want to push this one, Abbie. Jack will eat you alive if you interfere, if you insult her. I've been talking to people since Adam called me last night, and I am giving you sound professional advice - mind your own business, and be all business when it comes to Jack."

"You think, huh?"

"I do. She pulls the knight in shining armor out of Jack, and if you attack her, he's going to attack you. Want that?"

She looked at the floor. "No. But I don't want him hurt again."

"That's out of your hands, your jurisdiction. Go back to the office before you create a problem."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll call Adam. You're acting like some high school girl who thinks the head cheerleader is trying to steal her boyfriend. You're a professional woman, with serious responsibilities, you'd do well to remember that."

"What is it with that woman?" Abbie's frustration exploded, she wanted to kick something, no, she wanted to kick Claire Kincaid. Right in the ass. "Explain that to me, I really want to know."

He sighed, then guided Abbie into a chair. He sat beside her and looked into her angry eyes. "She projects vulnerability, and it's real, it's one of the first things people mention when I ask them to describe Claire Kincaid. And she's broken, which enhances that vulnerability, and like it or not, offend your feminist sensibilities or not, that makes men protective. If you didn't have romantic feelings for Jack, you'd probably admire the courage it took for her to come here. And you'd respect their privacy, recognize that this is strictly between them. Go to the office, Abbie. Now. I'm going to order, as Jack's psychiatrist, that you not be admitted to his space." He stood. "I will not have you doing a number on him right now. He has more than he can handle as it is."

Abbie stood, glaring at Emil. "Fine. I guess I'm the only one who can see through her. If you guys want to run around, protecting her from the boogieman, knock yourselves out. If anyone needs protection, it's Jack. She wants him back, and she'll manipulate all those feelings until she gets what she wants." She turned and walked out of the waiting room. Emil watched her go, then went back into ICU.

He looked at Jack's curtained cubicle as he walked to the nurses' station. Claire was sitting by the bed, they were holding hands, oblivious to the world around them. He shook his head. God help that man if Abbie was right, but Emil didn't think she was. He stopped beside Maggie and asked for Jack's chart, made a notation banning Abbie Carmichael from visiting, then gave the verbal order to Maggie. With a last look at Jack and Claire Kincaid, he left ICU and went to work.

--xx--

"You slept OK?" Jack asked Claire, when she sat beside his bed.

"Yeah." She reached for his hand. "It was kind of weird at first, but I slept. Did you?"

"Oh yeah." Her hand was warm in his. "I still don't understand."

"I know." Her thumb rubbed against his. "When you're better, I'll try to explain." She glanced at the machines around the head of his bed. Was it her imagination, or were fewer of them in use?

"I'm getting better every hour." His mouth was dry. "Would you -" he looked at the water decanter on his meal table. Claire stood and poured some into a dull yellow cup, then helped him drink, steadying the straw as he sucked. When he'd had enough, she put the cup back and sat again. He wiggled his fingers, and she took his hand again. "Why did you do it?" he asked, softly, gently, as one would ask a child.

"You know it's complicated. It will have to wait until you're well, Jack. I'm here, though, for as long as you want me to be."

He looked at her though medicated eyes, the glazed look somehow arousing, and she felt guilty. "You look like you could use more rest," he said. "Are you in pain, Claire?"

How had she forgotten how easily he read her through her skin, by touching her? She nodded. "My knee was reconstructed, my pelvis was broken, I often have back pain because of that." She sighed. "In my own way, I'm an official junkie these days." She smiled.

"You always did think drugs should be legalized. Now that I'm experiencing them up close and personal, I'm wondering why I ever argued with you about it." He shifted his head and shoulders on the pillow. "Do you need medicine? We can probably get you some."

"I carry it with me, always." There was a sadness in her smile. "Life sentence. Lucky me."

He gently squeezed her hand. "I knew your injuries were severe."

She nodded, of course he did. What was the official line? "We did all we could, but her injuries were too severe…" She brushed her nose with her free hand. "I was broken in a lot of places, yeah, but it was the brain rattle that…" she trailed off. No need to talk of these things, to remind him of the pain he felt when he was lied to, of the pain she felt at engineering the lies. "Let's talk of other things. Tell me about your assistant."

"Abbie? She's competent. Not as good as you were, but she's learning. She's very young, like you were, but she lacks your analytical insights. She shoots from the hip, or so she likes to say about herself. Personally, Adam and I think she's a tad rude, a lot of rough edges we're trying to grind down. A few years of experience, some polishing of her social skills, and she'll be a fine attorney. She's quite a contrast to Jamie Ross."

"My replacement?"

He nodded. "Class act, like you. She was also anti-death penalty, but we avoided arguing over it." Emotion clouded his eyes. "After you, I wasn't going to care enough about any assistant, any issue, to argue. You were gone, and I felt so alone, so empty."

"I'm sorry." She was.

"I would have given you the space you needed," he said.

She believed he believed it, but she knew he wouldn't, couldn't, give her the space, as he put it, to heal. And his pity would have been too much. The loss of dignity had been so painful, and to have Jack see it would have compounded it. I had to wear diapers, she bitterly remembered, and bit her bottom lip. Then she forced a smile. "We'll talk, you know we will, I'll answer every question, but not until you're out of here."

"Then I'll get out of here soon," he said. "Are you OK with staying at my place?"

"Yeah."

"Good." His hand caressed hers, probing her feelings. "You're hurting. Go home, rest. Don't worry about me, I'm well cared for, and I'll rest better knowing you're taking care of yourself. Will you do that for me?"

She nodded. "I'll come back later."

"Only if you're really feeling up to it. I know you'll be safe at my apartment, and if you need anything, I'm sure Lennie will help. Or you could call Jamie, she's a generous woman."

I'm not going there, Claire thought, one assistant was enough, one ass chewing. "I'll be fine." She stood, releasing his hand. "I'll come back this afternoon or early evening." She bent and kissed his forehead. His hand caught her head, and she let him pull her to his lips. As soon as she touched them with hers, she felt a familiar jolt. She pulled away. "I'll see you soon."

Walking away, walking out of the unit, was hard. She didn't expect that, and she fought the tears that threatened to overflow from her eyes, focusing on the floor as she walked away. She didn't look up until she was out of the ICU. Might as well go back to Jack's, she thought, she had no desire to reacquaint herself with the city. She waited for the elevator.

It dinged and she looked up as the doors slid open. A tall, slender brunette stepped out, started past Claire, then stopped. "Claire Kincaid?"

Claire nodded.

"I'm Jamie Ross." She stepped back into the car just before the doors closed. A wry smile and she said "I can imagine what you're thinking, running into me, after meeting Abbie." The car descended and Claire waited. "I was looking for you, guess that's no big surprise. Can we get some coffee?"

"If you're going to chew me out, Ms. Ross, I'm really not up to it."

"No, nothing like that. I promise."

So Claire nodded. Jamie took her to a small restaurant near the hospital. They sat at a table under one of the plate glass windows, and Jamie ordered a cappuccino, Claire a simple black coffee. She still waited, this was Jamie's show, and Claire was too wary of Jack's friends wanting a pound of her flesh to be friendly.

"Didn't go well with Abbie?" Jamie asked, when the coffees were served.

"It was as pleasant as a raging yeast infection."

Jamie smiled. "I can imagine. I told her to leave you alone, but Abbie isn't one to take advice."

"How does she work for Jack?"

"I understand fireworks are a regular occurrence." Jamie sipped her coffee. "I wanted to see you, well, out of curiosity, to be frank, and because I think you're going to have a problem with Abbie."

Claire shrugged. "Well, you've seen me." Her head began to pound, she feared her words would disjoint next, and this very together woman across from her would see what a fucked up piece of wreckage she was. She took her medicine as discretely as possible. "What do you think? That I'm here to carve Jack up again?"

"I was the one to replace you. I saw what he was. If I thought you were going to screw him over, I'd say so, I'd stop you, whatever it took. But." She sipped more coffee. "I see the woman who was the source of the office legend, the woman who broke Jack McCoy's heart, and that woman is broken, too. It couldn't have been easy, making that decision."

"Hardest thing imaginable." Claire drank, hoping the hot liquid would accelerate the dissolution of the pills in her stomach. "All you angry people seem to forget I loved that man. Crazy in love with him. And the thought that he would be there, feeling responsible, smothering me with his guilt when there was no guilt to be had…" she shook her head. "I was helpless for months, Ms. Ross. And I mean that literally." She turned the cup on its saucer. "I had to relearn basic things, my brain had to rewire itself. I still have trouble talking, without a great deal of effort. And Jack would have been there through all of it, and he would have hated me eventually, especially if I didn't make a good recovery. Think about it, would you want Jack changing the diapers you had to wear because you couldn't walk, couldn't sit to use a bedpan? Have him deal with your periods when they resumed after the initial trauma? Feed you? Bathe you? And always there, lurking between us, the arguments that led up to that night, and the horror of that execution…" she stopped, unable to go on, she was going to disgrace herself.

"I understand."

"Do you, really? Claire Kincaid was dead, Ms. Ross, she still is."

"Jamie, please." She smiled warmly at Claire. "I'm not sure I'd agree that Claire Kincaid is still dead. You may not be exactly what you were, but you've made a remarkable recovery, and there's enough Claire that you're here now." She looked out the window at passing foot traffic on the sidewalk. When she again looked at Claire, her eyes were clear and kind. "You are a legend in that office," she said, "I had no idea what I was walking into when I started. No one warned me. My first impression of the great Jack McCoy was as an overrated asshole with a hard-on for drunk drivers. Lennie finally took me aside and explained." She toyed with her cup, turning it on its saucer, propping her chin on her other fist. "I don't say any of this to make you feel bad, or guilty, just to explain where I'm coming from in all this. After Lennie told me, I quietly asked around about you, feeling you must have been something special for Jack to be so devastated. When I heard you were alive, and here, in NY, to be with Jack, I admit I had some pretty strong feelings. I always felt protective of Jack." She shrugged, left her coffee cup alone.

"And now?"

"I think I understand why you did it, how hard it was, how difficult your life is now. I don't think you want to hurt Jack. By the way, I'm dying of curiosity -"

"He's confused but he seems glad to see me," Claire said, quickly, feeling the medicine kick in at last. "You know he asked me to stay in his apartment?"

"I do. Your return from the dead is the talk of the bar association." She caught the waiter's eye and indicated another round. "I'm surprised you haven't 'run into' more people."

Fresh coffees were placed on the table and the empty cups removed. Claire picked hers up and held it with both hands. "I'm sure I will. Although Abbie Carmichael was quite enough, if she's indicative of the general feeling toward me."

"You didn't expect open arms."

"No. I knew that I was going to hurt people by showing up, that it would generate a lot of gossip, but in the end, Jack was more important. I'd convinced myself that our bond was broken, that I was over him at last, I was moving on. I have a piddly little job in Vermont, keep to myself, read a lot." She sipped, then carefully placed the cup back on its saucer, hoping her trembling left hand wasn't noticeable. She put it in her lap. "Anita is angry, Adam's trying to be understanding but he's hurt, Rey is distant." She looked away for a second as a spasm shot through her lower back. "Jack is confused, he wants to talk, we have to talk, I know. I told him it would have to wait until he got out of the hospital. He's heavily drugged, I live on painkillers, it's not a recipe for clear communication."

"Do you want to get back together?" As Claire's eyebrows shot up, she hastily added, "I ask only because of Abbie. Well, not only because of Abbie." She flashed that disarming smile Claire had quickly picked up on. "I care deeply for Jack, I want him to be happy. He used to talk of you sometimes, usually when he was drunk, about how much he missed you, how he'd give anything for a few minutes with you." She sighed. "But Abbie has this thing going in her head, that she's going to somehow win Jack's heart, and I think that girl is Texas mean. So watch your back."

Surprised, Claire said, "You think she'd try to hurt me?"

"Not physically. I think she has a wide vindictive streak, though. And she's loud, literally and metaphorically, she won't keep a discreet silence where you're concerned."

"I'm sure there are lots of people who will be happy to listen to her." She leaned back, trying to ease the pain in her back and pelvis. "Five years is an eternity in legal circles, you know that. I don't know all that many people here now."

"So my question stands, if you don't mind answering."

"Do I want to get back with Jack? I don't know. I don't know that we could overcome what I did, what I put him through, I have no idea if he'd even consider it once he comes out of the morphine haze. I think it's all dreamlike right now, for him. I remember how it was for me. I was in a coma, but I was still somehow aware, I could hear people, I understood what they said. And it seemed like some extended bad dream."

"I hope it works out in a way that's good for both of you. There's been enough pain."

"Thank you, Jamie." A wave of emotion washed over Claire and she looked away, then cleared her throat. "I wish Ms. Carmichael could see it that way."

"Give her time, sooner or later she'll realize her fantasy is just that, fantasy. Are you OK?"

Claire grimaced. "Pain. I should probably get back to Jack's, try to rest. Stress makes it worse."

"I can imagine." She signaled for the check. "I have my car, I'll drive you to Jack's." She put money on the table.

Jamie got Claire back to Jack's apartment, walked with her into the building and up to Jack's. She entered the apartment, reaching for Claire's coat. Claire let her slide it off her arms, hang it, help her to the couch. She opened Claire's purse and got the pills, as Claire asked, then got a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator. Claire gratefully washed the medicine down, then sighed. Jamie perched on the edge of the couch. "Are you going to be OK alone?"

"Yeah. This is my life." She said it without a shred of self-pity. "I'll get undressed and lie on the couch." She tried to rise and fell back with a sharp "ouch!" Jamie stood and helped her up. She clearly knew the layout of the apartment, as she walked Claire into the bedroom without hesitation and parked her on the side of the bed.

"Where are your other clothes?"

"Second drawer." She unbuttoned her shirt as Jamie got sweatpants and a faded football jersey from the drawer. Claire let her, needed her, help undressing and then getting into the soft, loose clothing she craved. "Thank you for being kind." She moved slowly back to the couch.

"I would hope someone would do the same for me if I needed it," Jamie replied, draping an afghan over Claire's legs as she stretched out. "And it's what Jack would want, expect, me to do." A half-smile appeared. "I always thought of you as Saint Claire, when he'd go off on one of his drunken trips down memory lane. I refused to believe you were half of what he said you were." She tucked the afghan around Claire's legs.

"And now you know you were right." Claire pushed another pillow behind her head.

---


	5. Part Five

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Five_

---

"Maybe a little right. Oh God," she said, and started to laugh. Claire was puzzled. "It's just that I used to listen to how perfect you were, how beautiful, how sexy, yada yada, and I'd remind myself one should never speak ill of the dead and keep my silence. And now, when I think of all those oh so clever responses I thought but never uttered, I could have said them." She sobered. "Never mind, you had to be there. It's not that funny, I know." She touched Claire's head. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. One way or another, it's going to heal a man I care deeply for, and you, too. It's one of those 'only on a soap opera' things, coming back from the dead, I guess it has me a little frazzled after all."

"It's OK. I deserve a lot of what's coming to me."

Jamie put her coat on and then looked down at Claire. "In that case, stop beating yourself up over it, let others do it. Just be…whatever to Jack. I'll probably see you again before too long, but," and she reached into her purse for her card holder, "you can call me anytime, if you need something, if you're lonely or scared, whatever."

Claire took the card and glanced at it. "Even if Avenging Abbie descends on me?"

"Especially if that happens. Get some rest. I'm going to go back to the hospital, spend some time with Jack. I'll tell him I put you to bed and you need to stay there. See you later." She left the apartment, and Claire stared at the door, bewildered by the afternoon, but quietly warmed by the kindness of the woman who'd replaced her in the office and become Jack's good friend.

VII

Jack was on the mend, he was being released the next day. He was anxious and grouchy, still in pain, and worried about what it would be like to be alone with Claire again. She visited daily, stayed for extended periods when he was moved from ICU, but she never spoke of the way people reacted to her, of the things between them, of much of anything except general topics.

He'd had time to think, too much time. Every time he saw her, he was startled, struck with that feeling of seeing a ghost, and he wondered if he'd ever get used to the idea that she lived. All that pain, mourning, guilt, it was all for nothing, but he could not stay angry for long. As if intuitively, she'd walk into his room just as his anger bubbled over and he'd be struck - my God, there she is, so beautiful, so close but so distant - and the anger drained away.

There were other visitors. They came, with cheerful smiles and flowers, but every one of them wanted to know one thing - what was he going to do about Claire? How did he feel about Claire? They freely shared their feelings - rotten, horrible thing to do, send her packing, who wants a brain-damaged woman, she's not to be trusted - and he would go silent. He discussed her with no one except Jamie and Adam, and then not in much depth. He didn't know what to think until they'd had time to talk.

His three-week stay in the hospital left him weak, unsteady. Adam wanted to arrange a home care nurse, but Jack refused. He needed time alone with Claire. Adam shrugged, the sooner this was resolved the sooner he'd get his main prosecutor back.

And then it was time. Claire arrived early, in jeans and a white crewneck sweater, using her cane. Jack's sharp eyes took in her awkward steps, noted how gingerly she sat in the visitor's chair, saw the nervousness in her eyes. He wasn't feeling any too confident himself. His doctor came in, with release papers and final instructions, then a male nurse came in with a wheelchair to take him down to the car. Adam had arranged that, the car service and a man to help Jack up to his apartment; Claire hadn't driven in years, couldn't.

Claire took the papers. Jack eased down in the wheelchair, his jeans loose after weeks of lousy food, a white Ralph Lauren oxford shirt equally loose over his trunk. Silent, afraid, they went down via the elevator, through the lobby and hospital doors, and to the black limo waiting right in front. The nurse helped Jack into the car, and then Claire slipped in beside him. The driver pulled away from the curb and into traffic.

And still there was silence. Tension. The limo pulled up in front of Jack's building, and the attendant got out, opening the back door. Claire exited and waited nervously on the sidewalk, looking around, as Jack struggled to get out of the car. The man walked with them, took them into the apartment, and then, job completed, accepted his tip and left them alone in the living room.

Claire had cleaned all night, too nervous to sleep. It aggravated her old injuries, but she held off on her medicine until she could bear the pain no longer. It roared back now, as she sat with Jack on the couch, which she'd vacuumed and sprayed, the tension between them growing. Unable to sit, Claire rose, hobbled into the kitchen, and came back with a pair of Diet Cokes. She gave Jack his, then opened hers and downed three oxycodone tabs.

Jack, looking gaunt and vulnerable, faced her. She turned slightly, to face him, eyes locked on each other. Then Jack cleared his throat and sipped his drink, leaned back to dig into his jeans for the bottle of pain pills Dr. Matthews prescribed. Inexperienced, he fumbled with the lid and Claire leaned forward. She quickly had the top off, eyebrows raised. "Two," he mumbled. She tipped two Percocets into his hand. He swallowed them one at a time, washing them down with his drink. Claire capped the bottle and put it on the coffee table.

Then Jack grabbed her free hand and held it. "Talk to me," he said.

She leaned her head against the back of the couch, holding hands and meeting his deceptively steady gaze. "Do you remember how much we were fighting? How we'd seemed to have lost that part of ourselves that loved each other more than we loved a point of view?" He nodded. "Do you remember that last morning, driving in to work, after that horrible thing we witnessed?" Again, he nodded. She sipped her drink, her mouth was dry as sand. "I felt so far away from you, that the distance between us would keep growing, and…" she stopped, unable to keep looking at him.

"And you were pregnant but hadn't told me," he finished for her. The baby was part of the carnage of that night, he'd learned at the hospital what she'd known for a couple of weeks.

"Right. I was the poster girl for angst. I ran in the park, some idiot hit on me." She rubbed her thumb against his. "I went to see Mac, seeking some kind of guidance, and he ridiculed me in his own special way. I wandered around for a while, and ended up in front of the two seven. So I went to Anita, I needed her kind of her mothering. We talked for hours, and when I finally left to pick you up, I felt a little better about things. Not much, but the despair was gone. And so were you." She squeezed his hand, gently, placing no blame on him for the things that came next. "Lennie was blitzed. I'd never seen him drunk, it was kind of scary, not in any crazy way, just that if seeing Mickey Scott die could send him right after you into the bottle, then the world was definitely spinning off its axis. I finally got him to leave, I think we talked about his daughter. I don't remember much once we were in the car, but I do remember bright lights and turning my head, then pain, incredible pain, and then nothing."

"I was passed out across the bed, still in my clothes," he said. "I did manage to remove my tie and my shoes. And then my phone rang. And kept ringing. It was Adam, telling me life had changed, probably forever."

She nodded. "I have no idea how long I was comatose before I began to hear muted conversations at my bedside. My mother and the doctors, mostly. I think I remember hearing your voice once."

"I visited, but after a few days, your mother made it clear I wasn't welcome. She blamed me."

Claire nodded. "She did. Anyway, at some point I seemed to drift in a dream world, where I examined my life. I heard doctors tell my mother if I survived, I would be brain damaged, possibly partially paralyzed, that while they'd do all they could, perhaps it would be better if I just slipped away. And that planted the idea. My dream life, as I think of it, showed me in a wheelchair, unable to work, to do more than basic tasks for myself. You were present, always present, feeling guilty as hell and smothering me with it. I would never be able to make you understand it wasn't your fault. As far as I was concerned, Claire Kincaid was dead, I was just in a holding area until I passed over. I didn't, but the idea grew. Just let me die, release you from a burden you didn't want and couldn't handle. Jack, we would have ended up hating each other, trust me on that one."

He rubbed his eyes, blinked hard, and focused on her again. "Maybe," he said.

"I don't know when I was moved, I still hadn't come out of it yet. I still drifted in that world, though, and I made up my mind to survive, to be able to take care of myself, that I would not be the object of pity. Claire was dead, the Claire I'd been, it was the best, the only way to survive. When I came out of the coma, I told my mother and Mac to announce that I died of my injuries. You have to understand, I could barely speak a coherent sentence, but I made that clear. Mother wigged out, but my doctors told her that she should go along with whatever I wanted - they'd missed the part where I said announce my death - and decided Mother was a little nuts and imagining things out of stress and worry. Go along with her, they said, we still don't know the extent of the damage, but it doesn't look good. Don't upset her, it could make things worse. Do whatever she wants. So she did." She gulped more soda. "And thus began a year of recovery, of hard work. I had to learn so much again, like walking, talking. Even sitting up was a huge effort. Slowly my brain healed as much as it was going to. I could walk, talk, work at some menial job, take care of myself." She spoke not of the humiliations of being helpless, of being handled by nurses who assumed because she was brain damaged she couldn't hear. "Lennie would visit, he was sworn to secrecy, I knew he would keep my secret, out of guilt if nothing else." Her smile was grim. "He happened to be visiting the day my mother quietly announced my death. I'll give him this, he's one poised son of a bitch under shock and pressure. He's sitting by my bed when his cell phone rings and Rey Curtis tells him I've died. He just said My God, I'm so sorry, and hung up."

"Son a bitch is right," Jack muttered.

"Jack." Her eyes widened with sadness. "He was like my dad, I knew he would handle the difficulties associated with relearning to be a person…"

"And I wouldn't."

"You would have tried, God knows you would have tried, but the guilt and frustration, the plain unpleasantness of a lot of it, would have been too much in the end. You would have viewed me as a burden, come to hate me in the end for saddling you with my broken carcass for the rest of your life. Because God knows, you wouldn't have walked out, no matter what. And I couldn't live with that weight, Jack. I really believed I would never see you again, that I was freeing you to get on with life, that you would get over me soon enough, and I you."

"You have no idea how wrong you were," he said.

"Yes, I do. Lennie told me. When he saw how much that distressed me, he stopped referring to you. I saw him once or twice a year," she said, anticipating his next question. "However, I didn't know that you were still a little messed up all these years later. I am so sorry, I hope you know that, believe that. If I'd been able to think, I would have realized what my decision meant for you, for other people. As it was, I struggled with my own problems, overcame obstacles I was told I never would, and built a new life. It's not an exciting one by any stretch, but I can't really handle excitement." She shrugged. "My brain starts misfiring and my sentences come out sounding like Chinese. So I manage a small hotel in a tiny resort town in Vermont, live in an efficiency apartment above the office, read a lot. Work crossword puzzles. Try not to think about my life here."

"But you came back."

"Lennie told me you probably wouldn't survive your wounds. That shattered any illusions I had about moving past you, getting over you and the life I once had. Maybe I should have stayed in Vermont, at least you wouldn't be feeling like this."

He interlaced his fingers with hers. "I'm glad you didn't. I never stopped loving you. I had a hard time getting back into life, but I managed. But you were always there, in my heart and mind. And I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and this will be some hallucination, you'll still be dead, and I'll feel all those emotions again." With some effort, he moved to close the space between them, easing his arm around her. "I would dream of holding you again," he whispered, "and when I woke, felt so empty."

"So what do we do? Try to be friends? Can you forgive me for what I did?"

He kissed her forehead. "I can forgive you anything, Claire, I swear it." He rested his forehead against hers. "I guess friendship is the best place to start. We were best friends first, all those years ago."

"I know. I know how to be friends." She smiled. "I don't know how to be a lover anymore."

"Don't worry about that. We loved each other once, it'll come back."

"Like riding a bike?" she teased.

"Yeah." He rubbed their noses together. "We need time to get used to each other again."

"Should I move out?"

"Only if you want to."

Someone knocked, loudly, on the door. "Shit," Jack said, "who the hell is that?"

"I can guess," Claire said, bitterly, struggling to get up and stop that pounding on the door. "I'll bet you twenty bucks it's Abbie Carmichael."

"God, I hope not," he said, his voice cracking. She glanced at him, hand on the doorknob, and he chugged his drink.

"Stop!" Claire screamed, and the pounding stopped. Looking at Jack for confirmation, she opened the door when he nodded. Abbie pushed in, blew past Claire, and went right to Jack. She knelt on the floor beside him. Claire closed the door and limped back to her place on the couch, leaning against Jack again.

Abbie ignored her. She put her hand lightly on Jack's knee, staring into his eyes. "How are you?" she asked, unable to hide her emotions.

---


	6. Part Six

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Six_

---

Jack took another sip of his drink, put his arm around Claire, and said, calmly, "I'm OK. Trying to have a conversation."

Abbie pulled her hand away from his knee and finally looked at Claire, who maintained a blank expression, though her hand reached up to close with Jack's, dangling over her shoulder. Abbie looked at Jack again. "You may think this is none of my business -"

"I do," he said, sharply, shifting his weight closer to Claire.

"But I have to say this." She rose and perched on the edge of the couch, on Jack's other side, her gaze locked into his. "This woman ruined your life, so you have to ask why she's back, what does she want."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Which is something I'm trying to discover."

Claire cleared her throat. "I'm not evil incarnate, Ms. Carmichael." She felt stress building and breathed deeply, trying to utilize the exercises she'd been taught to prevent spasms, convoluted words, pain.

"That remains to be seen," Abbie snapped. "I care about you, Jack. You're vulnerable right now. At least move her into a hotel, so you'll have the space to think."

"You are so far out of line," Jack warned.

"I know." Abbie sighed. "But I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't try to protect you, to ask the hard questions."

"I'm more than capable of asking those questions." He squeezed Claire's hand. "And she'll tell me the truth."

"How can you be sure? She's lived a lie for years, it's got to be second nature by now." Abbie closed her eyes, fighting the helplessness that engulfed her. "Just know that I'm a phone call away if you need me, that I care. Please."

"Duly noted." He winced as a pain wracked his chest. Claire released his hand and rested hers lightly over the nearly healed wound, as if taking the pulse of pain. "Go home, Abbie, go to the office, go to hell for all I care." His eyes closed, and Claire struggled up, grabbing her own medicine, which was not bonded to Tylenol like his, and tipped two small tablets into her hand. She put them in Jack's mouth, and he swallowed them with a slug of Diet Coke. She didn't lean against him again, she sat, fighting her own pain, watching Abbie Carmichael with all the intensity of a pit bull. When the jolts of pain subsided, Jack opened his eyes and looked at Abbie. Drawing on all his reserves, he said "I understand that you're concerned, Abbie, and I appreciate it, but it isn't necessary. Claire and I need time to talk. You need to leave."

She stood. "OK. I know you think I shouldn't have come, shouldn't say these things, but consider that I might be right, and that if you need me, I'm here." She looked at Claire, measuring those eyes, which regarded her with wariness. Oh yes, she thought, be afraid of me, Kincaid, I'll fight for this man. "You know how to reach me. I'll see myself out."

They watched her walk out and gently close the door behind her. "Wow," Claire said. "She thinks I'm evil." She wanted to lean against Jack, to ease the pain in her hips and pelvis, but she waited to see what he wanted.

Jack stared at the door, absently turning the drink on his thigh. He knew Abbie's intentions were basically good, but she was not one to back down from a fight. He sighed, then sensed Claire's pain and hesitation. He looked at her, smiled weakly, and slid painfully into the corner of the couch. He reached to pull her into his arms. She stretched out with him, her head on his shoulder, felt his hand run up and down her arm.

"So," he said, moving his left leg so that Claire rested between them, "Let's tackle that eight hundred pound gorilla in the room." He looked down at her, then lightly traced the scar on her forehead. "Why did you come back?"

She put her hand on his waist, positioning herself so as not to cause pain for either of them, and her fingers moved lightly on his abs. "Because I realized I still loved you, that I'd done you a terrible wrong, and that maybe you still needed me."

He kissed the top of her head. "Why did you do it?"

She knew what he meant. She'd told him before, but he was asking for more, to penetrate every defense and rationalization she might have. "Because the Claire you loved was gone."

"Is it really that simple?"

She looked up. "Yes. I don't expect you to forgive me or understand, I don't expect any of this to be easy, and if you want me to leave, I will."

His arm tightened around her. "You know," he said, "if you were hurting as much as I am, and you surely were and more, I can almost understand." He sighed. "God, it's impossible to think when you're in pain, isn't it? Mix in the painkillers, and who could possibly think beyond the next few minutes."

"I know."

His mind was so dulled by the medication that he couldn't feel much of anything. He looked at her, she'd told him she lived on this stuff, she must be used to it but he didn't know if he could ever be. He wanted, needed, clarity. He focused on her brown eyes, on the warmth radiating from them, a warmth that spread to her body encased by his larger one, and it felt good. All the pain and guilt and sorrow faded as if it hadn't happened as all he felt was her body against his. He knew more questions and answers waited, but right now, stoned out of his mind and holding Claire, he pushed them away.

He dozed off, and she watched him a little while before joining him in sleep.

--xx--

The phone woke them. Their heads came up at the same time, both groggy and confused, as the phone on the end table behind Jack rang. She reached over him for the receiver and put it in his hand. "McCoy," he mumbled, wondering what time it was and how long they'd slept.

"Jack, it's Jamie. I'm sorry I woke you."

"That obvious?" he said, shifting and jostling Claire.

"I don't want to intrude, but I was wondering if I could bring dinner over for you and Claire. I won't stay."

Jack scratched his head. "I don't even know what time it is." He pushed the receiver away from his mouth and said "Jamie wants to bring dinner."

Claire sat up, pushing her hair away from her face, realizing it was almost dark. "My God, we've slept all day," she said, blinking several times. "Uh, sure, if she wants to, that would be nice."

"Thanks, Jamie, we'd appreciate it."

"You guys have slept all day?" Jamie chuckled.

"Drugs," Jack said, "I'm rethinking my position on legalization." His shoulder ached, and he wiggled into an upright position, rubbing it.

"I'll be there in a couple of hours. Do you want anything special?"

Jack looked at Claire and a fond smile born of memory broke on his face. "Chinese," he said. Claire turned her head and looked at him, then smiled, too. Jack always wanted Chinese after sex. She started laughing, trying to muffle it with her hand.

"Inside joke?" Jamie asked, her voice light and warm.

"Sort of. We'll see you in a couple of hours." He clicked off the phone and twisted to seat it in its stand. "God, I feel like somebody shot me," he said.

Claire slowly stood. "And I feel like I've been run over by a truck." She slowly stretched, but it didn't help, the medicine had worn off and her pain, her constant companion, was present and accounted for. "I need a shower, hot as possible," she said, before reaching for her meds.

Jack got up and gently hugged her. "Well, we did sleep together," he said.

"We did, why break tradition?" The warm Diet Coke she used to wash the pills down was nasty.

Jack looked shy, and Claire cocked her head inquisitively. "I, uh, was wondering if we should shower together, like we used to."

"Oh." She hadn't thought about Jack seeing her scarred body. "I don't look like I used to."

"I don't either."

She nodded. They slowly made their way into the bathroom and Jack reached into the shower stall, turning the water on. Claire felt shy, afraid he'd be repulsed by her scars. He cupped her jaw with his right hand, pushing her long hair over her shoulder with his left. Their eyes met, and trust flowed between them. Claire reached for the hem of her shirt. "Well, we have seen each other naked before," she said, and pulled the shirt over her head. It dangled from her hand as she waited for Jack to inspect her. Then she pulled her jeans down and stepped out of them, holding Jack's hand for balance. And then, standing naked before him, she waited for the repulsion at the jagged scarring from surgical repairs to hips, knees, and the truly ugly one on her chest, where they'd opened her up to restart her heart and repair the damage broken ribs had inflicted on her organs.

Jack merely pulled off his clothes and stood there, the shiny scars from his wounds on display. Then he pulled the shower curtain and Claire stepped in ahead of him. They felt awkward with each other, but Claire assumed that would pass. They gently washed each other, as they'd often done after making love; Jack was particularly gentle as he washed her face with his fingers, touching her with a sense of wonder akin to those early days.

Clean and dry, they walked naked into the bedroom. Jack stopped her and sat on the edge of the bed with her, holding her hand. "I don't know…"

"Shh." She touched his lips with her finger. "If it's right, we'll know it. It's been a long time, there's no need to push anything. And you're in no shape for it anyway." Her smile was sweet. "But it's nice to be naked with you, anyway."

He stroked her wet hair, then kissed her. "I'm glad you understand," he said. Then he got up and opened a drawer. Claire joined him, and as if no time had ever passed, they dressed in the clothes they thought of as nightclothes - sweats and long-sleeved tees. Then Claire combed her wet hair, and then sank on the bed to pull on a pair of socks.

Jack got them fresh Diet Cokes and they sat on the couch. His shoulder hurt terribly, and he took a couple of pills; Claire's medicine had kicked in and she was comfortable. "Can we, should we, try to fix things, Jack?"

He looked at her, remembering the horror all those years ago, horror she'd inflicted by choosing to let him think she was dead. In her face he saw the toll that deception had taken, felt her vulnerability in opening herself to that question, realized he could hurt her deeply if he so chose. Yet there was an innocence in her expression, her eyes, and he knew he could never hurt her. He took her in his arms and kissed her, gently, his tongue tentatively probing hers. Then he held her head under his chin and against his wounded chest.

"I think we should try," he said. "I don't expect it to be easy, but I spent too many nights on this couch, crying and wishing for just one chance to hold you. I have that now, and I'm not willing to piss it away."

"There wasn't anyone after you, Jack," she said, "I just want you to know that."

Jamie knocked then. Jack, more mobile than Claire, got up and let her in. She brought in a couple of brown paper bags, studiously avoiding looking at them with more than pleasant smiles. The awkwardness between them could be cut like a knife, and Jamie wondered if they'd tried to make love and things had gone badly. Then she realized probably not, Jack's wounds were too fresh, and there was too much between them in terms of deception and pain. She put the bags on the kitchen counter and unpacked them, then got plates from the cupboard.

Claire watched her. Jamie was obviously familiar with this apartment, and she wondered what had transpired between them over the years. Then she looked at Jack and realized nothing had happened between them except a rich friendship.

"I wasn't sure what you liked, Claire," Jamie said, "so I guessed. I hope it's OK."

"It'll be fine," she said, slowly, her brain screwing around yet again. "Thank you."

"Then I'll see you again, soon I hope." And she was gone.

Jack and Claire sat at his small table, and for a moment, it was as if time stood still. It was too comfortable. It wasn't until they cleaned up that the awkwardness hit again. Jack led her to the couch and held her, again, wanting to take her to bed and hold her there, but afraid to. He couldn't tell how she felt, and that was new.

"Jack," she said, softly, pulling on his tee shirt with two fingers, "I know only too well how much you have to process, to forgive if you can."

"Hush," he said. "We've been over this. All I ever wanted was to hold you again, and now I am. Let's leave it at that."

She raised her head. "I think maybe we should get in bed, you're going to conk out soon." She glanced at the medicine bottles. "Unless you think that's inappropriate."

He smiled. "No, not at all." He stood and helped her up. They got in his bed, into what had once been their bed, and he drew her close. "You haven't asked," he said.

"I don't have the right."

He kissed her forehead, inhaling a scent he'd never forgotten. "No one," he said, "though Abbie hasn't been shy about hitting on me."

"Is she going to be a problem?"

"Nothing I can't handle." He kissed her lips, a slow, lingering kiss, then kissed her cheek. "She's a good lawyer, but she's not irreplaceable. You're here, and she has to deal with that."

"So do a lot of people," she said, rolling on her back. "I hurt so many people."

"They'll come around."

"I'm not sure Anita will."

He heard the pain in her voice. "She will, give her time."

"And you?"

He rose up on his good arm and looked at her. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She eased him down, then slid over his chest, carefully, to kiss him. "I missed you so much," she whispered. "There were so many times I wanted to call you, to tell you, but Lennie said you'd gotten on with your life, and I didn't want to mess with that."

He moved her hand lower. "Will you, can you, do you want to be gentle with me?"

In the shadows, he saw the familiar smile he'd missed so much. Her hand slipped into his pants and closed on a very healthy Mr. Winkie. "Can you? Scars and all?"

"Only one way to find out."

She gently pulled his pants off, then moved away to remove her clothes. She was grateful for the darkness, which hid her terrible scars. His hands reached for her breasts, and her breath quickened. God, she'd missed those hands. Her own hand caressed his penis, and then she shifted, very carefully sliding over him. When he was buried within her, she stroked his face, neck, and chest, paying attention to his nipples, then she began to ride him, carefully. It didn't last nearly long enough, but it was enough. When it was over, she fitted herself to him and adjusted the covers, her head on his shoulder. Sleep came easily.

VIII

"Oh Christ!" The infuriated Texas drawl woke them, wrapped in each other and the sheets, naked as newborns.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" Jack asked, lying on his back with his arm around Claire, feeling the pain of his wounds.

"You gave me a key, remember? In case you slept through your alarm and phone calls?" Her sarcasm cut through the room. "Hangovers and all, you wanted me to cover your ass. Well, you've slept through several phone calls. Guess I understand why." She apprised Claire's naked, scarred body with a withering sneer. "Ever hear of plastic surgeons, Magdalene?"

Jack was out of bed faster than anyone would think possible, oblivious of his nudity. He grabbed Abbie by the shoulders and shook her, his face a mask of fury. "Shut the fuck up! Get the fuck out, and do not ever come back. Start looking for a new job, today."

Abbie stared at him, pain and bewilderment on her face. Claire made no effort to cover herself, she'd lost all modesty during her recovery, when strangers handled her body and commented on the terrible wounds. She simply watched Abbie, watched Jack. "Jack, I'm sorry, but Jesus Christ, look at her! And you've gone right back to screwing her, like nothing happened, like she never lied to you…"

Jack's hand pulled back as if he would hit her, then he stopped, dropped his hand, and quietly said "Get out, Abbie. Leave my key. And be gone from my office by the time I return to work next week."

"Tell me you don't mean that," she pleaded.

"I don't? You burst in here and insult this woman, my lover, who has never done a thing to you. Yes, I mean it, Abbie."

Tears flooded her eyes, and she looked at Claire again. "You don't even cover yourself," she mumbled.

Claire was calm. "If I have something you don't, one of us needs to see a doctor. Oh, wait, I do have something you don't, scars. Well, they're part of me and Jack accepts that."

"Get out, Abbie." Jack reached for his sweatpants on the floor and stepped into them. "Out of here and out of the office." He pushed her toward the door.

In the living room, by the door, Abbie hesitated. "For God's sake," she whispered, "I love you. Can you blame me for being a little crazy right now?"

"I can blame you for calling Claire a whore. I don't love you, Abbie, never have and never will. For the last time, get out of here."

Abbie turned and walked out. In the hallway, she sagged against the wall, feeling her love turning to hate, hate for Claire and above all for Jack McCoy. What was it everyone said? Don't get mad, get even. She'd find a way to do that. Drawing on her Texas upbringing, she pulled herself together and walked to the elevator, imagining the two of them making love, and weighing her options for making Jack's life miserable. A tiny smile played on her lips as she stepped into the elevator. She knew exactly what to do to bring Jack and that scarred whore down.

---


	7. Part Seven

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Seven_

---

--xx--

Jack returned to bed, gingerly pulling Claire into his arms. He raked her hair with his hands, still unable to get used to its length and luster. "I am so sorry," he whispered.

"Not your fault," she said. She turned on her side and stroked his face, still loving the feel of his stubble. "She's just a young girl in love with her boss. I know the feeling. But giving her a key?"

He blushed. "I've spent a lot of the past five years drunk, and she covered my ass. As Jamie did before her." He ran his hand down her side, over the curve of her hip. "Do you remember when we stole mornings like this?"

She nodded. "Few and far between, as I remember."

"Want me to make coffee?"

She kissed him, not too deeply, she wanted to brush her teeth. "Sure. I'll shower while you work your magic." Her long fingers rested on his jaw. "Last night. Was it OK?"

He smiled. "Yes. I just wish I'd lasted longer, for you. And for me. I dreamed it so many times…"

"Go, make coffee while I shower or we'll never get out of this bed."

He laughed, that was the Claire he remembered. He rolled away and got out of bed, looking down at her. "There was a great song from the sixties," he began.

"Do you believe in magic?" she finished for him. "Right now, I do. But we're insulated from the world right now, except for that woman, so we feel safe. What's it going to be like, out facing people?"

"It's going to be fine. Go, shower." He walked away before he did something that would rip open the new skin over his wounds.

--xx--

Jamie Ross was in Adam's office, at his invitation. "He seems happy, Adam, how long have we wanted him to be happy again? I don't think she's about to leave him again."

"No, I think not," the old man said. "I understand, on some level, why she did it."

"Does that really matter now? She's back, and he's living in a dream. He's happy, and that's all that matters."

Adam frowned. "I wouldn't deny him a moment's happiness. It's Ms. Carmichael who has me worried. That girl wants him for herself."

"Have they slept together?" Jamie wondered.

Adam shrugged. "I have no idea, but I doubt it. What do you think?"

"I doubt it, too, but sometimes Jack got so drunk…"

The rapping on Adam's door interrupted them. "Come in," he snarled.

Abbie walked in. "Jack fired me this morning, Adam. I'll be out by noon."

Adam frowned. "This morning? He's in the office?"

"No." Abbie flushed. "You probably don't know this, but Jamie, and then I, had a key to Jack's apartment, to get him up when he was too hung over to get up himself. I kept calling this morning, to check on him, and when he didn't answer, I went over. I found them, naked and asleep, in bed. There were, uh, problems with that, and he fired me."

"What were you thinking?" Jamie said.

"I was thinking my lover was in trouble, and to be honest, cheating on me. He was. It's been an honor working for you, Adam. I'll be out by noon." She turned and closed the door after her.

"Lover?" Adam muttered.

Jamie sighed. "Only in her head, if I know Jack. God, coming in like that, is she crazy?" She raked her hair with her fingers. "They need to be left alone, although I'm glad they did manage to connect, so to speak." She gathered her coat and briefcase. "Good luck, Adam."

He nodded, and Jamie smiled weakly before walking out. She looked at Carmichael's cubicle, then made up her mind. She walked in, interrupting the hasty packing. Abbie looked at her.

"Why, in the name of God, did you do that?" Jamie asked.

"I told you," Abbie snapped.

"Abbie, I don't believe for a second that you've ever slept with Jack. I do believe that he'd sleep with Claire the second the opportunity presented itself. Leave them alone, let them find their way through this."

"I'm not sure I can do that," Abbie smirked. "If you don't mind, I'm busy."

Jamie shrugged. "Whatever. I wish you the best. And again, leave them alone."

--xx--

They had coffee in bed, as had once been their habit on lazy Sunday mornings. Both were freshly showered but naked, still getting used to each other.

"Touch them, Jack," Claire said, "make them real in your mind. They're very much part of me."

He put his mug on the end table and sat up, letting his fingers lightly caress the scar tissue that marred what had once been a stunning body. He could only imagine the amount of pain each one represented. Then she reached up and touched his bullet wounds. That done, they clung to each other.

A little later, reaching for her coffee, Claire softly said, "You know, we didn't use birth control last night." He sat up and looked at her. She touched his cheek. "I don't think it's going to be an issue. My body isn't quite wired the way it once was."

"I don't mind if it is an issue," he whispered.

"I do," she said, "it's way too soon for something like that. I should have thought of it, but my synapses don't work like they used to." She shrugged. "I'll get a morning after pill."

"You don't have to do that."

She winced, got up and walked into the living room for her medicine, and his. "Morning cocktail," she said, striving for lightness, "welcome to my life."

He took the bottle from her and opened it. "How many do you need?"

"Four." He shook them into her hand. "Another reason for the MAP." She sighed. "You think Liz Rodgers would prescribe one?"

He took her shoulders. "You don't need a prescription now. The law changed."

She swallowed her pills. "Then I better get dressed and go get one."

"I'll go with you." He got up. "We can get breakfast while we're out."

She nodded. They dressed and went out into a beautiful morning. Claire took care of business and then they went to a diner, where she swallowed the pill with orange juice. They ordered breakfast, as they had so many times before. Jack held her hand while they waited for the food to arrive, content in the silence, knowing she would share her thoughts when and if she was ready.

She was ready once breakfast arrived. "You know we can't have an accident like that," she said.

He nodded.

"We have enough problems to work through."

He shook his head. "I don't see them as problems. I understand why you did it. All I can tell you is that I'm happy you're here. We may have problems with others, but they'll be temporary."

"You're awfully sure of that."

"I'll make sure of it," he said. "We're rid of our number one problem, every one else will be piece of cake."

"That girl scares me, Jack."

"Why?"

"She's mean and vindictive, and I've come along and upset her little fantasy." The words came out correctly but the images she wanted to convey were scrambled. She sighed. "My head isn't working, sorry."

"Seems fine to me," he said.

She breathed deeply, then said, "I know what I want to say, but in my head, the images and words are confused. It takes effort to get them out correctly."

He wasn't used to her speaking slowly and carefully, and it was then that he truly realized how broken she was. The scars were the leftovers of physical trauma, but he hadn't given a lot of thought to her brain, what severe injury could do to it. She'd tried to tell him, but he hadn't really listened until now. "So going back to work is definitely out."

She looked at him, with an amused smile. "Most yes." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "See? Sometimes I can't speak a simple sentence."

He took her hand. "No worries. You don't have to work."

They finished eating and went for a walk, absently heading toward Hogan Place, holding hands. She used him instead of a cane for support, and he matched her slower stride. When she realized where they were, she stopped. "I can't," she whispered. "Go in there."

"We don't have to. Although I'd like to make sure Abbie's out. Can you handle that?"

She shook her head. "Stares and whispers. No. Claire Kincaid, ADA, is dead."

Then a familiar figure came out the door and headed toward them. Sally Bell stopped short when she saw them. "My God," she said, "it is true. How are you, Claire?"

Claire's grip on Jack's hand tightened. "I'm OK. You?"

"Well. Busy." She looked at Jack and smiled. "And you, buster, how are you?"

"I'm remarkably well, Sally."

"Good to hear. Hope I'll see you soon." She moved past them, and Jack looked down at Claire.

"Was that so bad?" he asked.

Claire shrugged. "Guess not." She was tiring and the pain returning. "Jack, I need to rest, need my medicine."

He flagged a cab that took them back to his apartment. Claire fed the beast, as she thought of the constant pain, then stretched out on his couch. He sat, easing under her head, then stroked her forehead. She looked up at him.

"So," he began, "tell me about it."

She knew what he meant, and she told him as best she could about brain damage and limitations. She simply was not the woman he'd known and loved, would never be. "I'm not sure you can live with that," she finished.

He smiled. "I can. Throughout all the nightmares, I wanted but one thing, you back for just five minutes, and now you're here and the five minutes are long gone. We'll get through it, Claire. I promise."

--xx--

Abbie cleaned out her cubicle, then went to a bar. She focused on the guy sitting a couple of stools away, in a suit, but with a lost expression on his face. It took two more drinks before they sat next to each other, talking, and then she took him home.

-xx--

Jack took another two weeks before returning to work. They spent the time settling in, trying to get comfortable with each other and the changes time had wrought. They talked a lot. Claire knew despite his protestations, he had some anger to deal with, and he finally opened up a little about it. He told her things he'd never whispered to anyone, of the raw pain and guilt, the terrible guilt that ate away at him. She took it, not seeking escape through rationale, answering his questions honestly. They made love a few times, but it was not the same, not that she'd expected it to be. It would take time to adjust to each other, and even then it might never again be what it was. They spent evenings holding each other on the couch, watching TV, eating popcorn, talking of banal things most of the time.

And then Monday came. Claire was up before Jack, hobbling around his kitchen, making coffee while she heard him get up and stumble into the bathroom. The coffee finished brewing just as the shower cut off, and she got a couple of mugs from the cupboard. When he came into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, she smiled.

"You still ride that bike to work?"

He took his coffee. "Thanks. Yeah, when the weather's nice." He walked to the window and looked down at the street, his version of the Weather Channel. He noted how everyone was dressed, then turned back to her; her hair was tousled and she wore her usual sweatpants and an old football jersey, a mug between her palms. He felt a surge of love, it startled him. Despite his initial shock, then his anger and questions, despite the satisfactory but not the same few rounds of sex, he hadn't felt the love he expected to. She noticed, her eyebrows arching. "Oh, Claire," he whispered, and put his mug on the counter.

She slid into his arms, felt his chin rest on her head as his hand stroked her spine. She put her arms around his waist, slipped her thumbs under his waistband, amazed at how good this felt. It was as close as they'd come to the old days. Then he leaned back and cupped her jaws in his hands, their eyes locked together. "Why do I feel like we're a puzzle?"

She smiled. "Because we're both broken in our own ways and trying to fit the pieces together."

He kissed her, lingering as their tongues played together, then he pulled away and sighed. "I have to get to the office, but why don't you meet me for lunch? You can do it."

She nodded. She'd have to go there at some point, if she wanted to stay in Jack's life. "What time?"

"Let's say noon for now. If something changes, I'll call you." He kissed her forehead. "See you then."

She drank coffee and watched the Today Show, her feet on the coffee table. It felt so normal, and she feared that was an illusion. How would she deal with it if he had a bad day? They'd been more or less on their best behavior during this time, but that couldn't last forever. She sighed, changing the channel to Turner Classic Movies and waited. She was good at waiting.

-xx--

Jack got off the elevator and signed in. As he straightened up and turned toward Adam's office, it hit him. It was too quiet. He glanced around at the cubicles, seeing heads studiously bent over computer keyboards or books, instead of the murmur of conversation or random cackle of laughter as someone cracked a joke. He shrugged it off, it was his first day back in over two months, surely his memory was playing with him. Claire, he thought, your memory constantly and permanently plays with you, how do you deal with it?

He went to his office and stood by his desk for a moment, taking his bearings. It seemed like he'd never left it. Then he changed from his jeans into suit pants and snagged a tie from a hanger. He expertly looped it around his neck and then adjusted the knot. Finally, he reached for the jacket, just as Adam walked in through his private entrance. Jack looked up and smiled.

---


	8. Part Eight

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Eight_

---

"How are you?" he asked the old man, who wore a sour expression on his face.

"We need to talk. In my office." He walked out and Jack obediently followed, slightly puzzled. "Close the door," he said, "then sit down."

Confused, Jack did as he was told. When he was seated in front of Adam's desk, he fiddled with his thumbs as the old man stared out the window.

Then Adam cleared his throat and swiveled to face his executive ADA. "I have to ask a question, and I expect an honest answer."

"Of course." Jack loosely gripped the chair's arms.

"Actually, it's a series of questions." He picked up a pen and tapped a fresh legal pad on his desk. "I assume you weren't a monk the past five years."

Jack frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You slept with other women once you got over the shock of Ms. Kincaid's 'death.'" Adam's eyes bored into his.

"No," Jack said, "I didn't. I didn't have the interest." He blushed a little. "If I felt, uh, urges, I used my hand. I didn't want, wasn't ready, for the real thing."

Adam made a notation of sorts on his legal pad. "I assume that's been rectified?"

Jack's blush deepened and he looked away for a second. "If you're asking if I've slept with Claire, yes, a few times."

"But no one else?"

"No. Adam, what the hell is this about? Since when are you interested in the behavior of my penis?"

Adam snorted. "You of all people have to ask that?" He wrote a number on his pad. "You didn't do it with Abbie Carmichael?"

"Abbie? God, no. Why?" He leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees.

"Ms. Carmichael tells a different story. She says you seduced her shortly before Claire was resurrected from the dead."

"That's bullshit, Adam. I knew she had a thing for me, but I kept my distance."

"Really? Witnesses say you were out with her in a bar just a day or so before you were shot."

Jack dimly recalled that night. "Well yeah, I met her and some of the attorneys for a drink. I didn't stay long."

"And the attorneys say she left like two minutes after you. She says she went to your apartment, that you were drunk and being maudlin about Claire. She tried to comfort you and it turned into something else."

"Absolutely not. I went home. Yes, I got drunk, but I was alone, with my memories. As I recall, I couldn't make it to work the next day."

Adam jotted notes on that damned pad, then looked hard at Jack. "And Ms. Carmichael called in sick that day, too. She says she spent the morning with you, carrying on where you left off earlier."

Jack shook his head. "I don't understand. Even if it happened, and it didn't, what difference does it make?"

Adam frowned. "The difference is Ms. Carmichael is pregnant and naming you as the father."

Jack went white. "Adam. It didn't happen. If she's pregnant, it's not mine. DNA will prove that."

"Yes, when the baby's born, but right now, she's making accusations to the wrong people."

Jack thought he was going to throw up. "Claire," he whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't you see? It's payback for Claire, for me not kicking her out. For loving her." Helplessness was written on his craggy face.

"Whatever it is, she's complaining - you had your way with her, then fired her when your old flame showed up, leaving her pregnant and unemployed. The mayor is not amused, he wants to know what kind of cathouse I'm running over here."

"It's easy enough to disprove," Jack said.

"In what, seven months time? In the meantime, she's suing you and this office, for sexual harassment, for violation of the supervisor-subordinate rule, for all I know for you having a short penis." He threw the pen on the pad. "You're in major trouble. She's even gone to the press." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a copy of the Post. The headline read "ADA v ADA, as DA plays musical beds."

Jack was silent as he reached for the tabloid. The story claimed that Jack took advantage of young Abbie, only to throw her out as soon as Claire returned from the dead. He was painted as a horny, heartless son of a bitch, firing a young woman he knocked up for an old flame he was keeping in his apartment. He tossed the paper on Adam's desk. "Pure bullshit and you know it."

"Do I?" He didn't sound like Adam. "You have quite the reputation, why shouldn't I believe you didn't get around to putting it to Abbie?"

"Because of Claire."

"Whom we all thought was dead."

"Time will prove my innocence."

"We don't have time. The mayor is demanding I suspend you at the very least, the ethics committee is screaming for your appearance, and you're not going to believe who's representing Abbie."

Jack thought his head would explode. "I think you better tell me." The possibilities were endless.

"Donnelly."

"Liz? Liz believes this crap?"

"Abbie is very convincing."

"Mother of God," he croaked. "I never touched her, not sexually."

"She says you have a mark on your penis," Adam dryly said.

Jack's mind raced. "OK, OK, I think she dressed me one morning when I was so hungover I barely made it into work. Got me in the shower, that sort of thing." A sick feeling hit him like a baseball bat in the stomach. "Please tell me SVU is not involved in this."

Adam snorted. "A superior using his position and power to force a subordinate into having sex? What do you think?"

"She's calling it rape?" His voice barely worked.

"More or less. That she couldn't say no out of fear for her job."

"Christ." He stood and walked to the window.

"Go home, Jack," Adam said, joining him at the window. "People will be coming around to interview you, interview Claire."

"Claire? What does she have to do with it?"

"Pillow talk, for one. And there is the little problem of her 'death.' Abbie is claiming that was your excuse for wanting her in your bed, to 'help' you forget."

Jack was pale. "Mother of God."

"Get a lawyer, a good one. I suggest Danielle Melnick, if Abbie hasn't gotten to her yet. Or Shelly Kates. But do it now, but not from this office. Go home. I'll be in touch with you later."

He numbly obeyed, leaving Adam's office for his own. He changed back into his jeans, grabbed his helmet, and left as quickly as possible. As he rode home, he wondered how to tell Claire.

He didn't have to. He walked into his apartment to find detectives from SVU sitting on his furniture, talking to Claire. Her expression, when she saw Jack, was stricken. He recognized the detectives, Benson and Stabler, the best in that squad. He put his helmet in the closet, then sat next to Claire, on the couch, reaching for her Diet Coke. Then he looked at the detectives. "What are you doing here, why are you talking to Claire?"

Olivia Benson tried a smile. "We're asking for information."

"You can get the hell out of here. Leave her alone. This whole thing is crap, and you ought to know that."

Olivia continued to stare at him. "Abbie Carmichael is pregnant, Jack, no question about it. And she swears it's yours. And she refuses amniocentesis, says she won't risk the baby's health."

Jack closed his eyes. "Just get out," he said, struggling for control.

Benson and Stabler stood. Liv gave Claire her business card. "Call if you need anything, remember anything."

When they were gone, Jack turned to Claire. "You don't believe it."

She put her hand on his knee. "No, not a word of it." Her head leaned against his. "But this is a major clusterfuck."

He pulled her into his arms. "We'll get through it, in the end it will be proved the lie it is."

"But in the meantime, your reputation, your career, is torpedoed."

"God, that reminds me." He moved away from her and reached for the phone. He dialed. It was picked up on the second ring. "Danielle, it's Jack McCoy. I need you." He pulled on his ear, a gesture Claire remembered. "You will? Thank you. Yes, we'll be here. Thank you." He hung up and pulled Claire into his arms again. "Danielle Melnick is coming over."

"I should get dressed," she said. She got up, leaving his arms empty. He didn't know what to do. When she came back, she was in jeans and one of his oxfords with buttoned collar points. She sat and took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "We should have seen this coming, or something like it," she said, rubbing his thumb with hers.

He had no idea how long they sat like that before a sharp rapping on the door brought them back to the present. Jack got up and opened it. The tiny dynamo with the brain of a genius barreled into the apartment.

"Hello, Claire," she said, as if it had been but yesterday when they last saw each other. Jack closed the door and stood helplessly in the middle of the room. Danielle turned toward him. "Perhaps something to drink, Jack?"

As he went to the kitchen, Danielle sat beside Claire, staring into her eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think it's crap," Claire whispered.

"Why?" She glanced up as Jack returned with three Diet Cokes. She took hers, popped the top, and focused on Claire.

"Because he said there wasn't anyone else."

Danielle nodded. "And you believe that because?"

Claire's brain felt like it was in a blender on high. "Not me," she said, and she struggled just to open the drink can. Jack gently took it from her and opened it. "Me, he loved me, cheats he does not." Tears of frustration filled her eyes, and Jack eased between her rigid body and the arm of the couch, holding her.

"Can't you see what's happened to her?"

Danielle lightly touched Claire's knee. "Yes, and I'm sorry, but there are going to be lots of tougher questions for Claire." Her eyes were kind. "I have to take her through it, before Donnelly can kneecap her on the stand."

"There's no reason for her to testify," Jack said.

Danielle raised her eyebrows. "No? What about her 'death'? Don't you think that's going to affect her credibility with the jury?"

"If anything, it proves she knows nothing of any of this. Danielle, I did not sleep with Abbie Carmichael, I didn't sleep with anyone." His hand rested lightly on Claire's shoulder as he sipped his drink.

"You know about proving a negative," she responded. "What I understand, and I haven't gotten discovery, obviously, is that Abbie is claiming you forced her to have sex through manipulation and fear."

"I know." He sighed. "And it's a damned lie. Can't we get a court order for amnio?"

"No, and you should know that. Once the child is born, we can get one for DNA, but by then, it's too late. Your career is already in shambles."

"I'll fight like hell, Danielle."

A tight smile appeared. "Yes, we will," she said, underscoring the 'we.' She looked at Claire. "I think we can convince any judge that you have no knowledge and that putting you on the stand would be too much for you physically and emotionally." Then she looked at Jack. "But your past is going to come back and bite you on the ass, my friend."

They spent several hours going over that past, dwelling on the past five years in particular. Claire heard, in terrible detail, of the damage she'd inflicted on the man she loved, and then she told of her own traumas, of her ignorance of Jack's life until the day she walked into the hospital.

"But you knew him," Danielle said, "So, in your opinion, would he have slept with Abbie once he adjusted to your loss?"

Claire shook her head. "I can't answer that," she slowly said, refusing to yield to the jumble in her mind. "I know he loved me. I know no more."

Danielle flipped the used pages of her legal pad over and put it in her briefcase. The clicking latches sounded like hammer blows. "Enough for now. I'll get together with Liz, see what cards she's holding. Do I have to warn you to keep a low profile?" She looked at Jack.

"No," he said, and the misery in his voice touched Claire's heart. She took his hand.

"I'll be in touch after I've talked to Donnelly." She stood, holding her briefcase. "Be good to each other," she said, "because right now you're all each other has. This is going to get ugly before it gets better."

Jack stood and walked Danielle to the door. "Thank you," he said.

"Jack." She smiled. "You know I'd do anything for you." She left the apartment, and Jack locked the door after her.

He returned to the couch and stretched out, holding Claire, wanting to cling tightly but worried about injuring her or himself. He kissed the top of her head, smelling her shampoo. "Could this get any more fucked up?" he whispered.

She raised her head. "Yes, so don't say that. Let's deal with one thing at a time. Like us. Are we truly together, or just rolling with memories of what we had?"

He stroked her face. "Speaking for myself, we're together."

"Me, too. We've taken on the world before, we can do it again." She looked at him in a way he hadn't seen in a long time, except in his dreams. He eased her up and kissed her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and then he pushed her up, sitting slowly, then taking her hand and leading her to the bedroom.

They undressed slowly and slid between the sheets. Though they'd made love a few times in the weeks since she'd been back, it hadn't been what it once was. The consuming lust they both knew was missing, but it was back now. He took her, forcefully, and she responded in kind.

When it ended, he rolled off her onto his back, feeling his wound ache and hoping he hadn't hurt her. She propped herself on her elbow and looked at him. He brushed her long hair away from her face, tucking strands behind her ear, and smiled. "You OK?" he asked.

She grinned. "Mentally, better than OK." Then she got up, the old grace he'd known gone, and left the bedroom. She returned with a couple of drinks and medicine bottles. Jack rarely felt the need for pain medicine now, but knew she could not live without it. She sat on the bed, opened each drink, gave him one, then opened her pill bottle. She shook a couple into her hand, popped them into her mouth, and chased them with Diet Coke. "Need one?" she asked, offering his Percocet bottle.

"Probably not a bad idea," he said, taking it. Then they piled up the pillows and lay together, on their backs, Jack's arm around Claire. The silence was comfortable, and then Jack said, "Want to order Chinese?"

Claire laughed, the old raucous laugh he knew so well. He looked at her, wondering how long it had been since she'd laughed like that, and she looked at him. "Sure, Chinese would be great."

IX

To no one's great surprise, SVU pushed the matter as a criminal offense. Danielle kept filing motions, insisting no case existed until the child was born and paternity determined, but Donnelly counter-argued that the sex-fueled firing was, in its essence, a rape offense. When they finally arrived in court, Abbie was visibly pregnant.

She glared at Jack as he walked into the courtroom, Claire by his side. He ignored Abbie, his head bent as he spoke to Claire, then they met Danielle, huddling together near the defense table. Liz Donnelly nudged Abbie.

"Focus," she hissed, "don't stare at him. Judge March is not an idiot, she watches for nuances, real or imagined."

Abbie nodded, then sat in the chair behind Liz's, in the gallery. She picked up a pencil and poised it over a new legal pad, working to control her rage at Claire Kincaid and at Jack McCoy, for dumping her and leaping into Claire's arms. She watched Liz settle in, heard papers shuffle, but she was focused on the image of Jack and Claire in the sack, naked and intertwined in sleep. She felt no guilt over her actions. Jack wrecked her life and now she would crush his.

After preliminaries, Liz stood to make her opening statement. Tall, slender, beautifully dressed, Elizabeth Donnelly was attractive and powerful, but not unsympathetic. She smiled at the jurors. "Good morning. This is an unusual case, in that it's not the forcible rape this office usually prosecutes, but it's rape nonetheless. A powerful man, attractive and seductive, supposedly still grieving the loss of his lover, takes notice of his very young and beautiful assistant, and one night gives her a choice, sleep with me or find work elsewhere. The young lady, afraid of refusing and thus finding herself out of work, felt she had no choice. She also felt, had for some time, deep sympathy for this wounded man, grieving the death of his lover, his soul mate, his former assistant. She was trapped, and not being from New York, had few resources to fall back on, so she gave in and slept with this man, the man who sits at the defense table instead of standing where I am, Jack McCoy. The Executive ADA for major felonies, one of the most powerful men in New York legal circles." She turned and looked at Jack.

"And then Mr. McCoy is shot and critically wounded, and wonder of wonders, we witness the resurrection. His lover, whom everyone thought was dead, was not, and came out of the mist to be by his side. Did he reject her, angry over her terrible deception, over the pain she'd caused so many? No. He moved her into his apartment while he was in the hospital, and she spent every possible minute with him at the hospital. When he was released, they set up housekeeping, and when Ms. Carmichael, the victim of his sexual power play, tried to talk to him, he fired her on the spot. He didn't want to hear about the child they conceived, in fact he denied sleeping with her. He claimed he hadn't slept with anyone since Claire Kincaid's death five years before." She shook her head as she looked at the jury. "I will be calling Ms. Carmichael to the stand first, then witnesses to support her testimony, and you will see and hear for yourselves what this man did to her. Thank you."

Jack looked at Danielle, then leaned over to whisper "Just like Liz. Short, to the point, and right for the jugular." He turned to look at Claire, sitting behind him in a dark suit. She'd drugged herself just before entering court, but he wondered how long she could sit in that chair before the pain set in. She smiled at him, and he nodded, turning back to watch the tiny dynamo approach the jury box.

"A tale of a spurned woman. As old as mankind itself," Danielle began. "The truth of the matter is that Ms. Carmichael had deep feelings for her boss, Mr. McCoy, which he did not return. It's true, he was still grieving the loss of his beloved Claire even after all these years. It's true he did not sleep with anyone during that time. And it's true that Ms. Kincaid did fake her own death, but came back as soon as she heard of Mr. McCoy's nearly mortal wounding at the hands of a recently released prisoner he'd prosecuted. Ms. Carmichael was so jealous that Mr. McCoy's psychiatrist banned her from visiting his hospital room.

"You're going to hear how difficult it was for Mr. McCoy to cope with his loss, how he sometimes drank too much, and so gave Ms. Carmichael a key to his apartment to ensure he got up and to work on time, if he didn't answer the phone, their prearranged signal. He trusted her, as a friend and as a subordinate, but never did he feel the slightest romantic feeling for her. And she abused that trust after Ms. Kincaid returned, using her key to enter his apartment a day or two after Mr. McCoy came home from the hospital and found the two of them sleeping in his bed. Yes, they were naked, they'd been lovers for a long time, and separated for a long time. Instead of gracefully slipping out - after all, Mr. McCoy did not have to work, he was on medical leave - she woke them, screaming at them, calling Ms. Kincaid a whore. It was that action that resulted in her termination from the DA's office, that and that alone. Jack McCoy never had sexual intercourse with Abbie Carmichael, and her jealousy over his relations with his beloved Claire is what is driving this alleged case. When it's over and you've rendered a not guilty verdict, I hope the DA's office will do the proper thing and charge her for filing false charges. Thank you."

Claire met Danielle's eyes as she stood to leave. She was on Danielle's witness list and could not listen to testimony until she'd given hers. She looked down at Jack and whispered "I'll be outside." He nodded. When Claire was out of the courtroom, Liz Donnelly called Abbie to the stand.

Sworn in and ready, a Kleenex in her fist, she faced the sympathetic face of Elizabeth Donnelly. Her swollen abdomen spoke clearly of her condition, and she ran her fingers lightly over the baby to underline the point.

"Ms. Carmichael, when did you meet Mr. McCoy?"

"When I was appointed to fill Jamie Ross's position, two years ago."

"And before that?"

"I worked in narcotics, prosecuting drug dealers."

"And what kind of performance reports did you get from your supervisor?"

"All excellent, which is why she recommended me to Adam Schiff to take over Ms. Ross's job."

"And what was your initial impression of Mr. McCoy?"

Abbie looked at Jack, then back at Liz. "He was friendly enough, but there was an air of sadness about him. I'd heard stories that his girlfriend was killed by a drunk driver some years ago, but he seemed to have recovered, was on top of his game as a prosecutor. He seemed to enjoy teaching me the ins and outs of prosecuting major felonies, which I greatly appreciated."

"Did you socialize outside of the office?"

"Not at first. We didn't go out for several months, and then one night, after we'd won a difficult case, he invited me out for a drink."

"And then?"

"We began going out several nights a week." She wove a tale of quiet dinners, an occasional movie, and how he then told her about Claire, asked her to do for him what Jamie did, which was call his apartment and make sure he got up and got to work. It was then that she realized how much he drank and how difficult his hangovers were. She cared about him, she was glad to do it, she understood he'd never gotten over losing the love of his life. She spoke of how his air of sadness touched her heart, how she wanted to help him, how much she admired him, as a man and as an attorney. Then Liz homed in on the night when he allegedly forced her to have sex with him.

"It was the anniversary of Claire's death," she said, "and I invited him out for drinks with some of the other attorneys. He came with me, but he seemed so sad, and he didn't stay long. He suggested we get out of there, the bar I mean, and go back to his place. We took a taxi, and once inside, he really began to pound the scotch. He put music on, we sat on his couch, and he sat next to me, his arm around me. He told me how much I meant to him. Then he kissed me. It scared me, I didn't think it was appropriate, after all, there are rules that bar relationships between supervisors and subordinates. When I protested, he kissed me again, and said he wanted me, and if I wanted to keep working in the DA's office, I'd want to sleep with him." She dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex. "He kissed me again and began unbuttoning my blouse. I just didn't know what to do. I didn't want to lose my job, and I didn't doubt that he meant it, that he'd find an excuse to fire me if I didn't go along. So I did." She rubbed her bulging stomach. "He was so determined, it happened right there on the couch. I didn't know until it was over that he didn't use a condom. He told me not to worry about it, if anything happened, he'd take care of me." She sighed. "I got dressed and left as quickly as I could, while he sat there, pouring another drink."

"And then he was shot a couple of days later?"

"Yes. We all thought he'd die."

"And then what happened?"

She swallowed. "The office was stunned, all everyone talked about was that Claire Kincaid wasn't dead after all, she was in New York and at Jack's bedside."

---


	9. Part Nine

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Nine_

---

"What did you do?"

"I went to the hospital, I thought he might need somebody. And I found Ms. Kincaid quite alive and well, in the waiting room of intensive care. We spoke, introduced ourselves, I warned her that I didn't think Jack could deal with her return from the dead. She blew me off."

"Ultimately, what happened that lead to Mr. McCoy firing you?"

Tears formed in Abbie's eyes and she quickly blotted them. "I knew he'd just come home from the hospital, and I didn't know if he had anyone with him. I called and called, but no one answered, so I went over, as I had so many times before, to check on him. I let myself in, it was absolutely quiet, and I was alarmed. I walked into his bedroom and saw him, asleep, with Ms. Kincaid."

"Were you jealous?"

"A little, yes. After all, I'd had sex with him when I didn't want to as an effort to make him feel better about losing her, and there he was, naked as a jaybird and his arms wrapped around this woman who'd deceived and betrayed him. I felt angry and betrayed and used, and yes, I did raise my voice. Jack woke up and leaped out of bed, he shook me really hard, and told me to get out, of his life and the office, immediately."

"Did you call Ms. Kincaid a whore?"

"No."

"And when you discovered you were pregnant, what did Mr. McCoy do or say?"

"That it wasn't his problem. So I realized what had really happened, and went to talk to Detective Benson at Special Victims."

"Thank you. No more questions."

Danielle rose and approached Abbie, a deadly smile on her face. "Good morning, Ms. Carmichael. I have but a few questions. So, it wasn't until Mr. McCoy banished you from his apartment and told you to find a new job that you realized you'd been raped?"

"Yes. I had sex with him against my will, and that's the definition of rape."

Danielle nodded. "So, seeing him in bed, with his lover, triggered this realization?"

"Objection, asked and answered," Liz said.

"Sustained," Judge March ruled.

"Would it be fair to say you adored Jack McCoy, that you had strong feelings for him?" Danielle stood before Abbie, her gaze drilling into the younger woman.

"Yes, I guess so," Abbie said.

"You don't much like Claire Kincaid, do you?"

"I don't know Claire Kincaid."

"But you went to see her, introduce yourself shall we say, the night she moved into Jack's apartment, while he was still hospitalized, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how did that go?"

Abbie squirmed slightly. "Well enough."

"Did you warn her to stay away from Jack?"

"I might have, I really don't remember."

"And did Dr. Skoda ban you from Jack's hospital room the next day?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us why?"

Abbie sighed. "He felt it was too emotional all around for Jack to handle, that Claire's return was upsetting enough, and he didn't want a lot of people hanging around while Jack healed."

"You're certain that was the reason."

"Yes."

"Very well. You've testified you had sex with Jack McCoy against your will, that you feared for your job. Do you consider yourself a good attorney?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the big deal? You could have said no, left, and found employment in private practice."

"I wanted to stay with the DA's office."

"And you testified you didn't call Ms. Kincaid a whore. Would you tell us what you did say?"

Abbie glanced at the judge, at Liz, then back at Danielle. "I think I said something about the Magdalene."

"The Magdalene. I'm Jewish, Ms. Carmichael, so perhaps I misunderstand, but wasn't Mary Magdalene considered a prostitute by the church?"

"Yes."

"So, what's the difference in calling Ms. Kincaid the Magdalene or a whore?"

"I didn't mean she was a whore."

"I'm sure you didn't." Danielle's sarcasm carried across the courtroom. "Are you certain that's Mr. McCoy's baby?"

"Yes."

"But you won't allow amniocentesis. Why is that?"

"The risk to the baby."

"A noble motive, indeed, even though those risks are minimal. No further questions."

Abbie left the stand and resumed her seat in the gallery. She glared at Jack before returning her attention to the next witness, Detective Olivia Benson.

--xx--

Claire hurt all over, her pelvis in particular. It had been broken in several places in the crash, and right now it felt like it never healed. She downed a couple more oxycodone, then tried to get comfortable on the hard bench in the hallway. Her thoughts were with Jack, with this clusterfuck of his life, feeling responsible. She looked up as Emil Skoda stopped in front of her.

"May I?" He indicated the bench beside her.

"Of course."

He sat and smiled. "How are you holding up?"

"A lot of pain, sitting like this is difficult. And I'm dreading being on the stand."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sure I'll be asked a lot of personal questions, my actions made to look just as terrible as they were, and it can only hurt Jack."

"I don't think so, Claire." He sighed. "Young Ms. Carmichael has gone off the proverbial deep end, and I think the jury will see that."

"His career is still ruined, and it's all my fault."

"I understand why you feel that way, but it's not true. Abbie engineered this all by herself."

"What if they find him guilty?" The anguish in her voice touched his heart.

"That won't happen. Danielle's too good."

"So is Donnelly." She winced as pain wracked her pelvis and lower back. "And with my screwed up head, Donnelly is going to have fun with me."

"Danielle will make it clear you suffered a brain injury and that you have trouble articulating your thoughts. Don't worry about it."

"I'm so sorry for all of this. I should have stayed dead."

His smile was compassionate. "This aside, are you happy being back with Jack?"

She smiled. "Yes. We've found our way back. I never thought he'd forgive me, but he did."

"So trust in the common sense of the jury and the skills of his lawyer, and simply love him."

"It's that easy?" She moved, trying to get comfortable.

"It is. From what I understand, Donnelly really doesn't have much of a case, it's classic he said she said. They would have done better to file a sexual harassment suit instead of felony charges." He sighed. "I go in before you, I'll lay out the nature of your injuries and that's about it. Then I guess you go. Just tell the truth, ugly as it is."

"It is ugly, isn't it? Playing dead, hurting people."

"You had your reasons, Claire."

She nodded. She'd been sitting out here nearly two hours, watching as three different people were called in to testify, she wondered when it would end. In a few minutes, the last witness called came out and Emil was called. Claire tensed, wondering how he would explain her to the jury, and if it would help Jack.

Half an hour later, Emil came out and Claire was called. "It's going our way," he whispered as he passed her. She limped up the aisle and gingerly took her seat. She was sworn in, then she looked at Jack, trying to communicate her love with her eyes. He smiled at her. Danielle approached her.

"Are you comfortable, Claire?" she asked. "Do you need a pillow or something?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, clenching her fists in her lap.

"I know this is going to be hard for you, but you aren't on trial so just relax and answer my questions." Danielle's smile was warm. "Can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. McCoy prior to your accident?"

"We were in love, lovers, but we'd been having problems, issues, especially with the impending execution of Mickey Scott. I was so tired of arguing, of the tension. I planned to leave the DA's office, hoping it would help as well as bring a little peace of mind. We argued the morning of the accident, but reconnected over the phone that evening. I was late picking him up, and he left, so I drove Lennie Briscoe home. And somebody slammed into my car."

"What were the extent of your injuries?"

"A lot of broken bones and a scrambled brain." She spoke slowly, she didn't want the words to come out mixed up. "Was in a coma for months, the doctors held little hope for recovery, but I did."

"And when you did, why did you insist your parents announce your death?"

She sighed, and tears formed and drained down her cheeks. "I wasn't the same. I was messed up. I didn't want to be a burden on Jack. The Claire he knew was gone. It was easier to be dead."

"Did you think about how that would affect Jack?"

She shook her head. "All I thought was burden, guilt. He would have stayed with me out of guilt and hated me in the end. I had to learn to walk and talk again, I still don't speak well unless I concentrate."

"Like now." Claire nodded. "So why did you come back from the dead?"

---


	10. Part Ten

This is the last chapter. Hope you've enjoyed the ride!

* * *

**A Broken Hallelujah**

_Part Ten_

---

"Jack was hurt, maybe dying. I had to be with him."

"And how did he react?"

"He was confused, hurt I think, but he was happy to see me." She looked at Jack, and the love in her eyes was obvious. "I happy to see him." She clenched her fists again, frustrated, but Danielle stopped her from correcting herself.

"When did you meet Ms. Carmichael?"

"She came to the hospital. She was mean." Claire remembered the therapist's words, simple sentences when you're stressed, Claire. "She told me she would not let me mess with his head. Then she came to Jack's apartment and said same things. Warned me to stay away from him, I think." She looked at Danielle. "Sometimes my memory isn't totally accurate, but I remember she was unkind."

"And the morning she found you and Jack in bed, asleep? Do you remember that?"

"Yes, very well. She was ugly, yelling at us. We were naked and she said I was the Magdalene, shameless because I hadn't pulled the sheet over my body. She saw my scars, I said they were the difference in our bodies. My ugly, ugly scars." She absently touched one over her temple.

"Does Jack mind your scars?"

She smiled, sweetly. "No."

"Back to what she called you. You understood her meaning?"

"Yes. I was raised Catholic, the church teaches she was a whore."

"And Jack, what did Jack do?"

"He got mad. He got out of bed and yelled at her for insulting me, told her she was fired."

"What did Ms. Carmichael say?"

"Nothing, she left."

"Thank you, Claire." She turned. "Your witness."

Liz Donnelly got up and slowly approached the wounded, vulnerable woman on the stand. "I am truly sorry you've suffered so much, Ms. Kincaid. Now. Would you say you know Jack McCoy as well or better than anyone else, that you can interpret his words and actions accurately?"

Claire looked at Jack. "Yes."

"Think he lived a celibate life for the past five years?"

Danielle held her objection, kicking Jack's ankle with her right foot.

"I have no way to know surely, but he's never lied to me." Her frustration with her language was clear. "He said he did. I believe him."

"But you don't know."

"No."

"You were his assistant, correct?"

"Yes." She shifted on the hard chair, her hips and pelvis were screaming despite the medicine coursing through her blood.

"And he had a sexual relationship with you. Was it consensual, or did he pressure you?"

Claire stared at the beautiful woman standing in front of her. "No pressure. We fell in love."

"Despite the rules about relationships between supervisors and subordinates?"

"We loved each other," she said. "We talked of marriage."

"Marriage. Why?"

Jack nudged Danielle, scribbling 'object damn it' on a pad, but Danielle shook him off.

"People in love get married," Claire answered.

"Was there any other reason to get married?"

Claire understood. "I was pregnant. Lost it because of the wreck."

"I'm sorry." Liz looked at the jury, then back at Claire. "Do you know if you were the first assistant Jack slept with?"

Danielle did object then, and the judge called a sidebar. "Your Honor, you've ruled on this," Danielle said. "Mr. McCoy's sexual history is irrelevant."

Judge March glared at Liz. "You will not get away with sneaking in the back door, counselor. Your cross ends now."

"She's already poisoned the jury's mind," Danielle said. "I ask for sanctions."

"No," the judge said. "Retreat." When the attorneys were back at their tables, the judge faced the jury. "You will disregard Ms. Donnelly's last question. Ms. Kincaid, you're excused."

Claire got up, shaky. She gripped the edge of the box before her reconstructed knee and hip gave way and she fell. Jack rose, but Danielle grabbed his arm, and he sat down. The judge looked at the female court officer standing by the jury room door.

"Officer, help Ms. Kincaid."

Claire was embarrassed beyond words, but accepted the gentle help of the older woman. She took Claire's elbow and carefully walked her out into the hall and onto the same bench. "Are you OK, sweetie?" she asked.

Claire looked up and nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

As the woman returned to the courtroom, Claire stared at the floor, her face flushed and her body screaming. Then she felt someone slide onto the bench next to her. She didn't want to look up, to be the object of pity or a smug 'got what you deserve'. Then a dark hand landed on her leg and she did look up, into the face of Anita Van Buren.

"That hard?" Anita asked.

"No. My body couldn't take it, can't take it." Tears of frustration and pain spilled out.

"I'm taking you home. I'll let Jack know." She got up and entered the courtroom, slipping up to the bar and whispering to Jack while yet another sidebar went on. "Claire is in agony and I'm going to put her to bed."

"Thank you," he whispered back. "That was so painful to watch."

"Glad I missed it. Later." She returned to Claire and helped her up. They didn't talk until Anita had helped her into a taxi and slid in beside her. After giving the driver Jack's address, she took Claire's hand in both of hers. "How bad is it?"

"Very." Claire squeezed her eyes shut. "It's like being kicked by a horse, over and over. And Liz Donnelly didn't help."

"What did she do?"

"Tried to bring up Jack's history of sleeping with assistants."

Anita held Claire's hand until they reached Jack's building. She helped Claire inside, up the elevator and into the apartment, then said, "How can I help?"

"I hate this," Claire cried. Her legs were about to give out. Anita got her on the couch.

"Where are your most comfortable clothes?"

"Foot of the bed," Claire said, fumbling with her purse.

When Anita came back with sweats and thick socks, Claire was capping her medicine bottle. Anita helped her undress and get into the sweats, then forced her to lie down, putting a few pillows under her head. "Want something to drink?" she asked. Claire nodded. Anita got a couple of sodas from the refrigerator, opened one for Claire, then perched on the edge of the couch and looked down at the younger woman. "God, girl, is this what your life is like?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's just unbearable, other times it sucks your very soul out." She sipped the Diet Coke.

Anita grinned impishly. "Then how do you have sex?"

Claire looked at her, then laughed. "Oh God, why does everyone want to know that?" Her laughter was cut off as another spasm hit. When it passed, she said, "There are ways, trust me, and Jack is gentle." She touched Anita's arm. "He's telling me the truth, right? He didn't sleep with her?"

"No, he didn't. I'm certain of that, he couldn't get past losing you." She stroked Claire's head. "Are you doubting him?"

"No, but he was such a horndog, I have to ask."

"Put those doubts away. How long does it take for this medicine to kick in?"

"About forty minutes." She winced.

Anita reached across Claire for an afghan folded along the back of the couch. She stood, shook it out, and covered her friend. Then she eased back onto the edge of the couch. "Are you expecting the worst?"

Claire met Anita's eyes. "She's lying, and I have to count on Danielle's considerable skill to prove a negative." She shrugged a shoulder. "There's no way to prove either way that sex happened." She frowned, damn, she was so tired of screwing up her words. It didn't seem to bother Anita.

"It should be over by tomorrow, it should never have gone to trial. Blame SVU for that, Donnelly is looking to make a name for herself, ever since she took over the legal arm of that gang. Trust Danielle, trust the jury to see the inconsistencies, trust Jack to tell the truth."

"He always has, to me anyway. And then I lied big time to him. Don't know how he forgave me."

"He did, and isn't that what matters?"

Claire nodded. "I really fucked up, Anita. So sorry for that."

Anita took her hand. "You were in a fucked up place, Claire. Who knows what they'd do in a similar situation."

"So you forgive me, too?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Claire squeezed her hand. "I want a life with Jack."

"Does that include children?"

Claire's smile was sardonic. "Are you asking if I can have kids?"

Anita shrugged. "What do I know? I know your pelvis was broken in what, six places?"

"Something like that. Yes, I can have children, but I can expect it to be difficult, because I can't take the meds while pregnant, and I don't think I can live without them. You have no idea of what it's like to live in chronic pain. Some people just think I'm a junkie."

"Then they're idiots. Just make sure you're using damn good birth control." Anita smiled.

"He's so gentle with me, afraid of breaking me again, hurting me. And he's scared shitless of knocking me up again. Love with glove, in addition to the Pill, going back on them was weird." Responding to Anita's puzzled look, she said "I lived like a nun these past five years. I'd forgotten how the Pill makes subtle changes in the body. And Jack hates condoms." She grinned, and Anita realized her meds were kicking in.

"It's going to be all right," Anita said. "He'll walk away from this, and Adam won't fire him."

"Hope not. But his reputation is shredded. Damn her."

Anita stayed with her until Jack got home at four. He appeared relaxed, kissing Claire's forehead before turning to Anita. "Thank you for taking care of her."

Anita glanced down at a sleeping Claire. "How hard was it?"

"The questions weren't too difficult, but the stress coupled with that chair did a number on her.

"How do you think it's going?"

He sighed, stripping his tie and unbuttoning his collar. "Danielle's kicking ass and taking names, but it still comes down to who the jury is going to believe. I take the stand tomorrow, and I don't want her," he touched Claire lightly, "anywhere near that courtroom. She can't take the stress."

"Tell the truth, I think the jury will believe you."

"I watched them while Claire testified, you could see the sympathy on their faces. If they accept that she believes in me, then I think they'll believe in me. I hope so, anyway."

"I don't think you'll keep her away, Jack. And it would be good for the jury to see her there."

He flashed that crooked grin. "The Romeo and Juliet syndrome? Don't separate the great lovers again lest tragedy ensue?"

"Something like that."

He hung his coat in the closet, and Anita took her cue to leave. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will, thank you."

When Anita left, Jack changed into jeans and an old oxford shirt, then made a drink. Claire was awake when he sank into his old armchair.

"Hey pal," she said.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Starting to hurt again."

He immediately got up for her medicine and gave her a couple of pills. She eased up higher on the pillows and looked at him. "We're going to win this."

"I think so," he said. "I testify tomorrow." He tilted his head. "Can you handle that, or would you prefer to stay home?"

"I'll be there," she said. "I have to be. I left you once, I'll never do it again."

"Claire, this isn't your fault."

She massaged her hip as she said, "Yes, it is. If I hadn't decided to be dead, you'd never have been vulnerable to crap like this."

"It's Abbie, the way she's wired. When the truth comes out, and it will when the baby's born, she's looking at some major jail time."

"Good."

He smiled, then got up and eased down on the couch with her, cradling her against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, inhaled her scent, and thought, dreams do come true sometimes. He refused to believe he'd be convicted, if for no other reason than he couldn't imagine being separated from Claire again. He never wanted to let go again.

--xx--

He took the stand. He looked at Claire, in the front row of the gallery, before he faced Danielle. Danielle smiled at him, then went to work.

"Ever sleep with Abbie Carmichael, Jack?"

"No."

"Ever want to?"

"No."

"You don't find her attractive?"

He shrugged. "She's attractive enough, but I am not, have never been, sexually attracted to her. She's too coarse, too rough, for me."

"In other words, she's not Claire." Danielle turned to look at Claire. "How did you feel when you heard Claire was dead?"

"I was shattered. I tried to bury myself in work, in drink, but it didn't help. I missed her more than words can say."

"Did you date?"

"I went out on a few dates, but that's all they were - dinner or a movie - and never twice with the same woman. I guess I dated four women during those years."

"Did you consider after work drinks or dinners with Abbie dates?"

"No."

"How did you feel about Abbie?"

"That she was young, eager to learn, a dependable colleague. I trusted her enough to enlist her help when the pain of losing Claire became too much."

"You gave her the key to your apartment and a pre-arranged signal as to when to use it, correct?"

"Yes."

"But you never gave her any reason to believe you were interested in her romantically?"

"No, absolutely not."

Danielle turned to look at Claire again, then at the jury before facing Jack. "And then you were shot, and woke up to find Claire Kincaid sitting by your bed. What did you think?"

"That I was hallucinating from the drugs. Then I was confused, then angry, and then I realized I'd been given a gift."

"You were able to forgive her for letting you think she was dead?"

"Yes. I love her, and that's what matters."

"Jack, tell us about the morning Abbie burst into your apartment."

He frowned and looked at Abbie. "I, we, were asleep. I'd turned the phones off, I was on medical leave and needed rest. And then suddenly Abbie's in my bedroom, freaking out because Claire was in my bed. She used a well-known euphemism for whore in reference to Claire, and I popped a screw. I got out of bed and grabbed her shoulders and told her to get out of my apartment and the office, she was fired."

"How was her job performance?"

"Adequate. She had more than her share of screw-ups, and she was not good at interviewing witnesses and suspects. I hadn't fired her before because I thought she'd learn, smooth those rough edges, but she wasn't. Invading my house, my most personal life, was the last straw. I admit I should have handled it better, in a professional manner in the office, but I was angry. She understood only too well what Claire meant to me, I'd talked of her often enough. So she knew what she was doing and saying when she called Claire names, made fun of the scars on Claire's body. And I lost my temper. But I never, ever had sex with Abbie Carmichael, and that baby certainly isn't mine." He kept his tone calm and reassuring, but his eyes were on Claire, drawing strength from her.

"Thank you, Jack. No more questions." Danielle walked to her chair as Liz Donnelly rose.

She approached Jack and looked at him for a second. "You're a very powerful man in legal circles, Mr. McCoy. Why shouldn't we believe you'd use that to your advantage with a young, rough around the edges, impressionable woman?"

"Because I want my partner to be willing." He kept his gaze focused on Claire. Liz followed the direction of his eyes and smiled, then turned back to Jack.

"Like the woman sitting in the gallery," she said. "But that woman was dead, and one must assume you're a normal male with normal sexual urges. Who scratched that itch during those five years when you thought your great love was in the ground?"

"No one."

"I'm impressed. You were able to resist putting the moves on a lovely young woman who worked so closely with you that you gave her the key to your apartment."

"Objection, Your Honor, is there a question in there?"

The judge eyed Liz and frowned. "Ask a question or move on, Ms. Donnelly."

"So you never once put your hands on Ms. Carmichael, no friendly hugs, pecks on the cheek, that sort of thing?"

"No."

Liz was growing frustrated. She changed tacks. "You admit you mishandled Ms. Carmichael's firing. Could you describe your exact actions, apparel, conditions at the time."

He frowned at the woman who'd once shared his bed when they both joined the DA's office, twenty some years ago. "I was awakened from a sound sleep. I was holding Claire, the sheets were tangled around us. Abbie let loose with her insults and invective, and I saw Claire, with those scars, and I lost my temper. I got up and grabbed her. I've testified as to what I said."

"Were you wearing pajamas?"

"No."

"So you had no problem displaying your naked body to this young woman. Perhaps she'd seen it before?"

"Your Honor," Danielle said.

"Withdrawn." Liz turned. "I'm finished with this witness."

Both sides rested, closing arguments would be the next morning. Liz left first, Abbie in her wake, and Jack noted she did not look happy. He stood with Claire as Danielle closed her briefcase, and the three of them walked out. Danielle suggested coffee, so they walked to a shop near the courthouse.

"I think Liz is waking up," Jack said. "She looked really pissed when she left." He took Claire's hand under the table, interlacing their fingers.

"I'm not surprised," Danielle said. "She knew it wasn't much of a case to begin with, I'm surprised she got the go-ahead to prosecute. Each time you mentioned Abbie making cruel remarks about Claire's scars, the jury seemed to frown as one." She looked at Claire. "Are you doing OK? You look like you're hurting."

"I am. It's not bad enough to hit the meds yet."

"I have a feeling Liz is tearing into Abbie right now, trying to get to the truth, and Olivia Benson is probably in for it, too, since she's the one Abbie contacted and pushed for prosecution." Danielle sipped her coffee. "I wonder if this will even go to the jury."

"God, I hope not," Claire said. "There's always risk with juries."

"You were damned convincing on the stand, Jack." Danielle finished her coffee. "You two just take it easy today, I'm going to write a devastating closing." She looked at Claire. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to make you a major player in that argument, emphasize how your scarred body brought out the knight in shining armor here." She nodded her head at Jack. "And I'm not going easy on your deception."

"Fair enough," Claire said. "I deserve it."

Jack released her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. "Stop. It's in the past, we can't change it, we just move forward. If I can let it go, then everybody else should too. To me, it's a miracle, a dream even, and I keep worrying I'll wake up and the bed will be empty, this will all be some weird dream."

Danielle stood. "Back to the office. I'll be in touch if I hear anything."

"Thank you, Danielle," Jack said. He stood and helped Claire up. They hailed cabs, and Jack and Claire went back to the apartment.

She got a Diet Coke and washed a couple of pills down, then walked into the bedroom. She was undressing when Jack came in behind her. He put his hands on her bare shoulders. He turned her around and kissed her. Her arms went around his waist. He broke the kiss, and used his thumbs to brush hair away from her face.

"I love you," he said. "If the worst happens, I want you to know I love you and I don't hold you remotely responsible."

Her legs buckled, and he caught her, easing her onto the bed. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her again. "Jack," she whispered. "I never stopped loving you. I swear I thought I was doing what was best for everybody."

"I know." One hand reached around and unhooked her bra, then he worked the straps down her arms. He looked at her, clad in just panties, and smiled. "You're still so beautiful. I know you're in pain…"

"I'm willing," she said, smiling slyly.

He sat up and practically ripped his expensive clothes off. He was clearly willing, too. His hands caressed her, ran over the curves he'd known so well, as his mouth closed over a nipple. He eased between her legs. "Tell me if I hurt you," he whispered, his gaze locked into hers. She nodded, and he moved, filling her, then he kissed her again, their bodies pressed together. Keeping his weight on his forearms, he made slow love to her. He brought her to multiple orgasms before he let go. When he eased off of her, rolling on his back, he held her tightly against his shoulder. Then he felt her go rigid.

He lifted his head and looked at her. "What?"

"You didn't use a condom."

"Oh. You're on the pill, it's nothing to worry about. Besides, I wanted to really feel you." He smiled. "Would it be so terrible if we had an accident?"

She sat up. "It might. It would mean living in terrible pain, as I couldn't take my meds." She shivered, and he got up, grabbing her robe from the hook on the door. He put it around her, and she slipped her arms into it and tied it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't consider that. I wanted you…"

She touched his cheek. "Like you said, I'm on the pill. I'm not going to worry about it." She smiled. "How strange to be talking of this again. I spent five years never having to consider a calendar."

His eyes darkened for a moment, and she thought of the five years he spent mourning, and her heart nearly broke. "Jack," she said, "I am so sorry for those years."

He pulled her gently down and kissed her. "I believe in redemption and grace, Claire. We both suffered, but in the end, we've found redemption, found the grace of forgiveness. Let it go."

The phone rang, and he disentangled himself from Claire, rolling over to get it. "McCoy," he said.

"Jack, Danielle. I was right. Donnelly figured it out, and she's dropping the charges. She asks you to forgive her, she wants to meet with you."

"When?"

"In an hour, at Kerrigan's. What do I tell her, and please don't say go to hell."

He laughed. "Tell her I believe in redemption and grace, and I'll see her in an hour." He hung up and told Claire.

"Damn," she said. "That's great, but what's going to happen to Carmichael?"

"We can only hope they let her go away quietly. She knows what she's done, she's been exposed, and what good can come from locking her up?"

"Nothing," Claire said. "I guess we could call this a broken hallelujah. For all the good news, there's a broken, disturbed woman paying for it. I think I can empathize."

He kissed her. "It's over."

"What do you think tipped Donnelly?"

He smiled. "She and I were lovers over twenty years ago. I think when I said I wanted my partner willing while I was looking at you, she remembered that's exactly what I want. And she knew, she realized it came from Abbie's jealousy and Texas mean position on revenge. My best guess anyway."

"Want me to go with you?"

"If you want to." He got up and began dressing. "You're right, this whole thing, from the moment I opened my eyes and saw you, until right now, is truly a broken hallelujah. All I want is a whole one."

She got up and put her arms around him. "So that's what we'll have from now on. Whatever else comes, we're together again, and what can we say to that but hallelujah?"

He kissed her. "And amen."

Amen - so be it.

-Fin-


End file.
